Frostbitten Flower
by The Scarlet Sky
Summary: When Celia married Jack, the world was perfect and her life complete. Yet by the time winter came, she found herself alone...but sometimes, we aren't as alone as we think. Jack x Celia, Marlin x Celia. AWL, long-fic. T for language. Complete.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

**Note: **I'm so freakishly excited. I haven't written something like this since...well, since DitT. My mind has turned into a coliseum where plot bunnies do battle to decide what story shall be written. This fic won. I'm pretty excited about it, but well…oh, who am I kidding, no one reads the notes anyway. XD

Disclaimer: Harvest Moon continues to belong to someone other than The Scarlet Sky. Dang it.

Frostbitten Flower

_Prologue_

"I love you."

Sprawled out on the soft grass, I tilted my head towards him, his sun-weathered face smiling in a sea of toy flowers. Warm breath tickled my cheeks, and his dark eyes sparkled in the soft glow of the blue flowers overhead. His hand reached out to my long curls of brown hair, and running through them with his fingers, he whispered, "You know that, don't you? I love you, Celia."

My lips parted slightly, but I didn't want to reply; words would only spoil this perfect moment. Instead, I nestled closer to him, sighing in satisfaction as his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight. I didn't want him to let go. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to speak.

The wind cast breezes on the grass that had become our pillow, ruffling it slightly and causing the flowers to sway on their stems. The scent of their blossoms traveled on the air, and as I became drowsy, I closed my eyes.

"…Jack?"

The precious words cut through the silence, threatening to end the perfection of the early dawn. His words answered mine: "What is it?"

I squirmed slightly, the folds of my clothes brushing up against his own. "Can we somehow…make this morning last forever?"

Gentle laughter came from his lips, and he murmured, "Celia, I can promise to love you just as much as I do right now: today, tomorrow, and always. I'll always be there for you."

I opened one eye, and his genuine smile washed away my nagging doubts. "You promise?" I still persisted, my voice wavering.

His hand strayed from my long silky tresses to my womb, and stroking the life we had created within me, he whispered, "I promise you. I promise…all three of us."

Slowly, his mouth reached mine, and gratefully I let him steal the power of voice from my lips. We let the morning drag on as long as the sun pleased, lingering for us until the first cock crowed, ending the magic of the dawn but leaving the promise of forever.

But that was Spring, and this is Winter.

Each step leaves an imprint on the white ground, curtaining the grass that used to cushion our tired and weary bodies. Flowers have wilted onto the soil, and even the light of the forest can't wipe away the gloom of the winter morning. I clutch my shawl tighter about me; I can see my breath become mist in the frigid air.

Everything is frozen. Everything is dead.

My pulse generates the only heat around me, a single burning flame of light in the darkness of winter. I close my eyes again, and I can hear that promise—I can hear his voice, I can see his laughing eyes, I can feel his touch.

Back when everything was alive.

Here was the place where love became real, where fears gave way to courage, where promises were forged. This dead place was a sanctuary—an escape from the work and toil and anxieties of the real world.

Now it's a cemetery.

I kneel down before the single stone on this white land—something new, something that would stain its fields forever. Trembling, I pull a worn-out glove off of my hand and let my fingers stroke the stone, leaving trails across its frosted surface.

The ceremony had been brief and elegant; I couldn't complain. Vesta had taken my left hand and Muffy my right, squeezing circulation in my otherwise dying body—after all, half of me lay buried. The tears froze upon my cheeks, and I had let them lay there, the unseen trails they left my battle scars.

But Muffy and Vesta aren't here now. I'm standing in this place alone.

My hand is shaking as I grasp a drooping flower. The lettering stares at me on the grave, and I know what it says: I've seen it. I don't want to believe it, but the words carved in stone can't lie to me. I pry my fingers one by one off the blossom, watching it fall from my hands onto the ground. Bright yellow petals glimmer on a white background—petals from another time, another Spring.

But it's Winter now. Spring is dead.


	2. Chapter 2: Celia: Prayer

**Note: **O-kay, so I had a lot of issues with this chapter; I wasn't sure if I wanted to do first-person in present tense or third-person in past tense. So, I wrote both chapters, and the former was better. What that means for you all is that this story will be told in alternating chapters: one in **Celia's POV**, the next in **Marlin's**, then **Celia's**, and so on.

(PS: I'm sorry I was so vague about who died. Oops. You'll know for sure this chapter.)

_Chapter Two:_

_Celia_

From what I've always been told, love is supposed to be like fireworks: a sparkling, vibrant, and passionate explosion of lights and sound. But for me, I suppose you could say love came more like a shooting star: quiet, beautiful, and unforeseen. You don't expect to see one shooting across the sky every night, just as you don't expect the first man to hold your hand to be the soul mate you've prayed to meet all your life.

What's frightening is how quickly that star can dim, how rapidly everything fate has handed you can be snatched back into the dead of night.

I place one more basket in the refrigerator with a sigh. The delicious scent of curry wafts from under its blankets as I push it between Romana's gift of a Meuniere set and Ruby's present of an apple pie. Food had flooded into this house with a torrent of apologies and tears—upon arriving home, I had been barraged by well-meaning visitors with their offerings of sympathy held high. Smiling, I had taken them all with quiet thank-yous and awkward conversations, appreciating their goodwill but at the same time longing for a moment to myself.

And now that the moment has presented itself, I'm no longer certain that being alone is what I truly want.

It's funny; you never really think about just how beautiful everyday life is. How blissfully simple it is to pick up dull white plates and set them on the table, two chairs ready for the inevitable opening of the door and the "What's for lunch?" that will follow. The sweet peck on the cheek before the blessing is spoken, a quick thank-you for just being there. The gentle laughter that presides over a simple, ordinary meal.

The agonizing silence that's forced to replace it.

I'm almost afraid to eat. I'm hungry, certainly, but as I hold my fork suspended over my salad, I can't help but feel strange as the sound of metal clinking against the plate's edge resounds in the empty room. Even as I chew the soft, juicy tomatoes buried in dressing and lettuce, my cheeks are burning in shame as I stare across from me--the vacant chair just barely hidden from view by the salad bowl, but still lingering in the corner of my sight.

And suddenly, it's so much harder to concentrate on the taste of fresh ranch dressing melting in my mouth.

I drop my fork dejectedly onto the plaid tabletop, watching it clatter from the white and blue design to the sturdy wooden floor. _"Honey, what's the matter? Not hungry? Is it the baby—is the baby kicking again?" _

It's only a meal. It's only a bite of food. It's an ordinary occurrence in an ordinary world, where ordinary people eat every ordinary day.

And yet…

"Haven't got a few crumbs to spare, have you?"

Startled, my head snaps towards the dark silhouette in the doorway. He turns to look at me, and I stare right back at his furrowed brow and impassive gaze as my heart pounds. Then, as I slowly begin to recognize his weathered features, my breathing relaxes. "If you're hungry, Mr. Takakura, there should be some salad left," I manage, forcing a smile. "There's…well, there's enough for two people."

Too late I realize what that statement implies, and immediately I wish I could bite back those ill-chosen words. But Takakura says nothing, and my slip-up is forgotten.

He nods, taking the seat across from me casually as he picks up his fork and spoon and begins to dish out the green stuff on his plate. "I didn't see you this morning," he begins, picking up the salt and pepper shakers. "You got up mighty early today."

"Oh, I just needed some fresh air," I explain, eyeing him as he begins to eat his meal. There's a method to his madness I discover as I watch him add to his creation: pepper, salt, stir. Pepper, salt, stir. He does it once more before, satisfied, he stabs a forkful of the salad and prepares to bring it to his lips. "Um, aren't you going to…?"

"To what?" he cuts in brusquely.

"It's nothing," I assure him hurriedly, my cheeks burning as I fold my hands in my lap. "You just didn't say the blessing, is all."

My naïve comment earns me a long, hard look. Slowly, the fork is put down, and Takakura crosses his arms, nodding. "You're right, Celia; a harvest earning such a good meal deserves a blessing. Care to do the honors?"

"But wouldn't you rather--?"

"To speak plainly, Celia," the farmhand sighs, "I can count the amount of times I've prayed for anything on one hand. It'd be much easier on me if you'd just say it."

I draw in a slow breath; to count the amount of times I've prayed in the last twenty-four hours would be like counting the amount of stars in the sky. I wonder what I'd do without those heavenly pleas. What I'd do just wandering aimlessly in a sea of emotion, struggling to find my way all by myself.

But this is a simple blessing, and I shouldn't be thinking about this now.

"May this food be blessed so that it may nourish our bodies, so that we may do your will," I recite, hands folded as well. "For only by trusting in your will may our souls be truly nourished as well."

My companion waits for a moment, and as I start to pick apart my meal again, he accuses, "How can you eat yet?"

"What do you mean?" I ask innocently, food inches from my mouth.

"Well, I don't pray much," Takakura admits, "but I do think you're supposed to say Amen."

Of course. Amen, the closing of all prayers. The final words that make everything you've just spoken worthwhile, that say you actually believe everything you're rehearsing. The words that stop making a prayer just a cluster of syllables, and turn it into a belief.

"How silly of me," I laugh hollowly. "Forgive me; Amen."

But sometimes, no matter how hard you want to believe something, you're forced to accept that there are times when no matter how desperately you pray, you'll never receive an answer.

* * *

To a farmer, the seasons—not the months—rule the calendar. The earth is a fickle creature; she chooses which seeds to nurture and love, and no matter what the farmer chose to plant, it's she who decides which crops deserves fruition. Vesta had taught me this law of the land well, and now as I search the tool shed, all the farmhand knowledge I had picked up in my previous home comes flooding back to me in a steady stream of names and dates.

"Tomato: Spring, Summer, Fall. Sweet Potato: Fall. Carrot: Fall…and…and…" I eye the faded label on the packet of seeds and sigh as I deem it unreadable. "Fall, and…"

"What are you doing in here—trying to freeze to death?"

The accusal shoots at me from across the room, and soon the familiar sound of stilettos against wood echoes as I find a blonde young woman standing by my side. Long curls of gold tumble down her shoulder as she places her hands on her hips, her ruby lips drawn into a displeased pout. In reply, my pale lips curve into a smile, and I say, "Muffy, it's so good to see you."

"I look all over this farm for you, and you're in _here_? Why aren't you resting? What are you doing in here?" she repeats, emerald eyes staring me down.

"Oh—I'm working."

"Working? I don't think so, honey." She raises an eyebrow as she inspects the place, scoffing at the pile of sharp tools leaning sloppily by the corner. "How did you _not_ manage to trip and scrape your legs up on this death trap?"

A giggle rises in my throat despite myself, and I answer, "I didn't farm here too much before. There was no real reason for me to come to the shed. And besides, a little mess never hurt anyone."

"Not _yet_, anyway," she corrects me, her finger tracing the shelves and returning to her with a fresh layer of dust. "How can you breathe in here? When was the last time Jack cleaned this place—honestly, would it have killed him to tidy up once every blue moon?"

She turns to me, grinning, expecting some sort of laugh in response.

I know she means well. I know she's trying to help. But the name stings, causing me to flinch involuntarily, and just as suddenly Muffy's grin fades.

"Oh, God—I said his name, didn't I?" she whispers, covering her mouth in shock as she sits down on a large wooden box. "I didn't mean—Celia, I swear I never—"

"It's okay," I murmur, cupping the bag of seeds in my hand as I idly pull the drawstrings. "It's—it's fine. I don't mind if you say his name. I don't see why it should bother me, you know?"

"But it _should_ bother you, Celia," the barmaid insists. "I mean, it only happened the other day, and already I'm trying to—I don't know—get your mind off him for awhile, and here I am doing the exact opposite."

"Don't be silly; it's fine." I examine the bag a moment longer before I remember it's Fall and _Winter_, and pocket it for later. "Could you see if there's a hoe in the corner for me?"

Muffy practically falls out of her chair. "A _what_--?"

"It's a tool—um, with a long wooden handle and flat sheet of metal at the end, making the whole thing sort of shaped like an L."

"Honey, you do _not_ want to know what I thought you said," she whispers, shaking her head as her hands search through the pile. "This thing?"

I glance at the object as she struggles to lift it off the ground, and nod. "Yes, that's it. Thank you—I was afraid for a moment that I'd have to squat down and pick it up myself. You see, I'm going to be planting the fields later, and—"

"You're doing _what_?"

"I said I'm—"

It's then I realize that the question is rhetorical, and soon Muffy is standing again, her expression that of disbelief. "Here you are, _pregnant_, and you think you can handle a whole farm? And if that's not enough, you want to tackle it alone?"

"But—"

"But nothing." She tosses the hoe to the floor, and to my horror, it clatters to the ground—out of my reach, and requiring at least fifteen-minutes-worth of squatting on my part to lift it up again. "Don't worry about working. Right now, I want you to worry about you; Takakura can handle Jack's responsibilities--God knows you've got enough on your mind as it is. You're pregnant, Celia, and I don't think Jack would want you to work yourself to death."

Just like _he_ had.

This time, Muffy doesn't apologize for the trance her words have placed me under, and I struggle to gaze at her head-on, to keep my smile plastered on. But it's getting harder to stand without trembling, it's getting more difficult to speak without exploding into a fit of sobs, and that's not what I need now.

Because the one thing I need…is the one thing I can't have.

It takes a few moments, but her glare softens, and as her arm wraps around me she whispers, "No one expects you to adjust so soon, Celia. No one's judging you. Take as long as you need to steady yourself. I just…I don't want you to…I don't want you to stress anymore than you have to. I don't want you to worry."

"But, Muffy," I speak timidly, my voice cracking somewhat, "I…I _want_ to worry about it. If it's okay with you, I want something to do—something to help time pass. I'd rather not spend too long…thinking. I can't very well steady myself if I'm only thinking about what's confusing me, can I?"

Muffy's grip on me lessens, her eyes fighting to remain level with my own. Silently, I plead with her, my hands placing themselves on top of her own and pulling them away slowly. She laughs hollowly, and wipes where mascara has leaked its way across her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I suppose that's true. It's good that you want to work; it's good that you feel ready to move on. But please--for your sake, Celia—don't overwork yourself. Don't carry that huge, stupid tool around to till the soil; go to the barn instead. Milk the cows, feed the animals. If you must do something, anyway."

A smile breaks out across my face, and I nod. "I'll do what I can."

She laughs again, and dabbing her tearstains with her jacket, she says, "I didn't mean to go off on a lecture—honestly, I just came to invite you to dinner with Griffen and I tonight. My treat. I mean, it's a big empty house and I don't want—I don't want you to eat all by yourself, okay?"

"I'll come," I assure her, fumbling about my pocket for a hanky and handing it to her; the last thing I had expected when taking this with me this morning was finding someone in more need of it than myself. She took it gratefully, and smiling, began to leave.

"We'll, uh, see you tonight, then."

I return her smile with one of my own. "I'm looking forward to it."

The door closes behind her, and I stand alone in the shed for a few moments, staring into space.

"Hm," I sigh to myself, crossing my arms. "Ready to…'move on'?"

Such an interesting choice of words. When is one ready for anything—ready for such change, such a sudden blow to one's heart? No, I don't feel ready. I'm not even sure what I'm 'feeling' anymore. This gnawing emptiness is more…more…

No. I'd promised myself I wasn't going to think about this anymore.

Taking slow and steady steps to the barn door, I open it wide to greet a small cluster of animals. Upon seeing a slumbering cream-colored cow, I start towards the heifer and pet her fondly, my cold hands startling the drowsy creature. "There, there, girl. I'm not going to hurt you."

But as my icy hands stray to the utter, a startling cry comes from the cow as she kicks over the bucket in surprise.

"So sorry," I apologize hurriedly, picking it up and proceeding to try again, and fail just as before. I purse my lips in thought; how had Jack done it, again?

"_Put your hand here. No, not there, here. Celia--"_

The cow cries out again, and once again I try to grasp her utters, struggling over and over again in vain. When at last I can't take it any longer, I stand and wipe my hands on my apron in frustration and shout, "Well, I _am_ sorry! I'm sorry that I don't know what I am doing, and I'm sorry that I'm hurting you!" What's this strange feeling—this prickling sensation stinging my eyes? I can feel my body tremble, but I don't want to fall; I can hear my voice wavering, but I want to scream. "I'm sorry that he never taught me anything, and I'm sorry that I'm not him! He's who you want, isn't he? You don't want me. Well, I want him, too. I probably need him more…and believe me, I _am_ sorry that I'm not him! I'm sorry, okay?"

Despite my best efforts to stand, I slump down to the ground, shuddering, and place my hands to my face, covering the river of tears running down them in shame. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

I'd promised myself this wouldn't happen. I'd prayed it wouldn't. And how I had prayed last night!—never before can I remember showing so much devotion to the slumbering deity of the lake. In the quiet of the night, I'd begged the heavens for some sort of strength, some remnant of courage. That after two days, I could do something—_anything_—besides melt into a puddle of tears.

That I could stop feeling so…helpless inside.

Helplessness. Yes, that's the name of this gnawing feeling.

But giving it a name only admits that this pain is real, and what I wouldn't give to pretend it never existed.


	3. Chapter 3: Marlin: Dead

**Note: **What I really, really like about this fic is the fact that I get to tell one story from two starkly different personas and perspectives. Next chapter I'll get to write sweet sad little Celia, and here I can write the frustrated and grudge-holding Marlin. Ee. I love writing a little too much. XD

_Chapter Three:_

_Marlin_

What the hell is he doing here?

What the hell is he doing in our doorway, talking to my sister like they're fast friends or something, when the truth is he's been our competition for years? Who the hell gave him the right to come over here and ask us for a favor? Who the _hell_ does he think he is?

I feel my lips curl into a snarl as I lean against the wall, the air of conversation snaking its way through the crack in the door as hushed words reach my attentive ears.

"I'm asking you as a friend, Vesta."

I glance towards my sister, and from the way her hands are positioned on her hips, I'm willing to bet she's frowning. Normally, that's how she holds herself when she's about to throw a hissy fit—like when she's going to shout that I need to be nicer to customers, or be gentler when handling the crops, or anytime that she thinks I'm being a whiny little bastard.

Which happens more often than I'd like to admit.

A gloved hand runs through her tangle of red hair in thought. Taking in a sharp breath, she answers, "Takakura, I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, I'd love to do it for her—but are you sure this would help?"

My smirk drops. I think my mouth is hanging open—did Vesta just say what I think she said? Where's the self-assured, "I reckon if you have any problems, you can handle them by your own damn self," that had kept our farms separate for ages?

"Everywhere she turns on that farm, she's reminded of him in some way or another," he replies quietly. "The bed where he slept, the kitchen where he ate, the field and barn where he worked—it's all a part of her everyday life now. She couldn't avoid it even if she wanted to."

And here's where my cockiness completely falters. Here's where I want to stop listening, but my ears won't comply with reason. _Her_—that's what he'd said, wasn't it? _Her_.

"But still, it's her life," Vesta argues. "She's a woman now, Takakura; she has the right to want to live in her own home. Has she told you anything to make you think she wants to leave, that she can't handle staying?"

Oh, God. Oh, God, no. _Her_.

He shrugs, his eyes averting my sister's gaze. "Sometimes…people don't talk with words. Sometimes they need something, and they can't figure it out on their own. Or they're too proud to."

"For land's sakes, Takakura, Celia is the furthest thing from proud."

"But I think she's afraid." The farmhand crosses his arms and sighs, Vesta waiting as he adds, "She's trying so hard. So damn hard. I think she's pushing herself too far, Vesta. It's only been two days, and she's already trying to get back on track. She's trying to push all this behind her—"

"Isn't that a good thing?" Vesta interrupts softly.

"…No. I don't think it is." He pauses, and I stare at him incredulously, as if this is some sort of gruesome accident—like a car crash—and I can't pull myself away, no matter how badly I want to. "Time is the only thing that can fix these things, Vesta. I don't want her to sulk forever, but I don't want to see that smile everyday--that fake smile that bottles everything inside. I don't want her to let everything out when people can't see her—I want her to come to terms with this loss on her own time. To hell with what the world thinks of her; she needs to handle it on her own, no matter how long it takes."

"…So that's why you want her to stay here," she realizes aloud. "You think if she can try to grab for a shred of normalcy, a home of sorts, that she can figure things out on her own. That she might open up a bit."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

Vesta crosses her arms, and bouncing her head from her right to her left shoulder in thought, she smiles wryly. "You had me ready to agree in the beginning, Takakura. Celia's like a daughter to me. I just don't want her to do anything she doesn't want to do, you know? Where is she now?"

"The Blue Bar. Muffy invited her for dinner," Takakura explains. "She said she doesn't want Celia to have to eat all alone in that house, and to be frank, I'm a little relieved she offered to take her in for the evening."

"Ain't that something. I always knew I liked Muffy, and I haven't been wrong about a person yet." She scratches her head in thought, then nods. "Tell Celia she can come to stay here anytime she wants. We'll be ready with open doors."

And with that, the final nail is hammered into the coffin, and my sanctuary is invaded once again.

* * *

People don't die in Forget-Me-Not. Or at least, young people don't die. If you take Nina, for example, there was nothing particularly shocking about her death--but when Jack collapsed dead on the ground, silence descended over the entire village like a thick cloud. Nah, not a cloud—more like smoke, I guess. It's dark, and foreboding, and it makes it difficult to see clearly, but in the end, that's all it is: smoke. It'll fade soon enough, and everything will eventually turn back to normal.

Well, I would be lying if I said that I thought things would get to be _this_ normal.

"Why didn't you slam the door in his face?" I accuse.

She shrugs, my outburst brushed away with a simple, "None of your business, is it? Now go upstairs and tidy the place up." My sister begins to pile the plates and pots on the counter, grabbing the rag for washing. It's a chore Celia and I used to share, but hey, things change over time. People get married, people get pregnant, people make excuses to escape a chore they only agreed to in the first place in order to see a girl smile.

People die.

"Upstairs? _Her_ room?" I repeat, scoffing. "What, so she leaves us, and then she thinks she can just come back like nothing happened, like she's family or something?"

"And she's not?" Vesta snaps, scrubbing away at a pasta pot. "I said to clean the upstairs, didn't I? Why are you still here?"

My legs don't move, and I face her resolutely, my frown deepening. "So she's coming back after all. Here."

"You alright with that?" my sister challenges, her head snapping towards me. Furious eyes stare through me like knives, slicing through my sneer into my soul. I know that look, and I don't dare respond.

I fidget a bit as she wipes the sauce from another plate, watching as she washes then dries it and places the platter on a shelf. "You'll have to face her sometime, Marlin," she chides me finally. "People aren't just going to disappear just because you—"

"I know, _okay_?" I growl. It's not just a sneer or a smirk anymore—I'm seriously pissed, and from the look on Vesta's face, she knows it damn well. "I know. I'll clean up the damn room."

I storm upstairs, each slap against the wood adding to a steady rhythm beating through my skull.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Celia. Here. Oh, God.

The room is empty, but strangely, I like it this way; no pictures clutter the bare wooden walls, and sunlight streams through the only window onto the sparse furniture. By it lies nothing but a simple bed—always made, always ready for its owner to pull back the blankets and dream. There's a dresser, there's a rug, there's a lamp and a small nightstand, and there's a tiny book nestled in its top left drawer. There's a page in this book marked by a pressed flower, there's a confession in ink I'm never supposed to have read.

There's a life I was never meant to understand, a girl whose smile was never meant to be mine.

I peel back the worn cover of the book, and I try to suppress the guilt that always stabs me whenever I see the hearts she uses to dot her i's and the curly-cue way she spells everyone's names. But I only let it last for a moment before I remember that I don't owe her pity, and I skip a few pages, I read a little to myself, I finally reach that flower. It's nothing unusual; just a simple, common, everyday Mist Moon. I'm not much for botany, but I wouldn't mind admitting they were pretty—in a simple, ordinary way. I let my fingers hold onto one of the petals, and crinkling it into my grasp, I watch it crumble into yellow dust.

Dead.

_Diary, you won't believe what happened today. I—I'm not sure how to explain it, but…he kissed me. Jack. He kissed me. I've never been kissed before—I guess I've never had a boyfriend before for that matter—but oh, diary, it was so beautiful. I can't really explain it. It's the fresh feeling of spring dew, the intensity of summer heat, the many shades of autumn, the cold touch of winter that reminds you this is real and not a dream. It's everything beautiful about the world, condensed into a single instant. I don't know if all kisses are like that, diary. But…maybe it's not the kiss._

_Maybe…maybe I _love_ him._

That was when she died to me. That was when I knew this wasn't a fluke, that this was her choice, that she _wanted_ this. Sweet like Judas's kiss, she embraced me once before skipping off towards her perfect little life with her perfect little husband and their perfect little home.

God, I hated Jack. I hated him with every fiber of my being—but Celia, Celia I couldn't hate. Damn, everything got so confusing as soon as I stared into her big brown eyes, and saw the sincere expression she always wore with that dopey smile. I didn't get what she saw in him—what she found so wonderful she was willing to leave everything behind, to marry him, to have his child.

To watch him die.

I didn't know how to take the news, to be honest. Was I supposed to feel happy? Sad? Guilty? Relieved? Honestly, I was just…stunned. I mean, hating someone is one thing. Seeing them dead, well, that's another thing entirely.

And this is where Vesta is wrong—sometimes the people you hate _do_ disappear. Sometimes they _do_ suffer, they _do_ falter, they _do_ die. But that doesn't mean you want them to. If anything, it messes with your head even more—because you're not supposed to mourn the man you've always wanted dead.

But I could care less how I feel about Jack. It's Celia—_Celia_ who confuses me.

"Marlin? Marlin, are you cleaning up there?"

My head snaps up from the book in my hands, and I slam it shut, placing it back into the drawer where it belonged all along. "Yeah, I'm done," I shout back, standing up.

What Vesta doesn't understand is that there's _never_ been anything to be done. Everything in the room has been clean—perhaps the occasional peruse of a diary had disturbed the room in days past, but nothing more. Nothing had moved, nothing was different. I hadn't dared to move a damn thing since the day Celia left. I'd left the memories untouched in hopes that somehow, just by walking in, I could revisit them.

And tomorrow, even that was going to change.


	4. Chapter 4: Celia: Change

**Note: **So much for weekly updates, right? Well, okay, so it is a week later, just not Wednesday. (sigh) I don't know if I want to be specific with update days, but I would like to say that I'll keep up with this ficcy at a relatively quick pace.

_Chapter Four:_

_Celia_

The first time I left home, I was fourteen years old, and Vesta's farm seemed as far away and frightening as the city's distant lights. I'd tucked all my meager belongings into a suitcase, kept my chin up, and arrived at the farmhouse with my knees buckling and my lips forced into a smile. Truth be told, I was terrified when Vesta first opened that door, and I think my poor heart stopped beating when she embraced me in her eager arms, shouting a welcome and somehow ordering Marlin around at the same time.

Today, as I hold that same battered suitcase, I realize that my smile is just as fake as the one I wore four years ago. The journey is shorter, and the destination no longer foreign, but that fake smile—that _smile_—has somehow sneaked along with my old suitcase, and I can't help but wonder just how little things have changed if I can't arrive here with a genuine grin.

Though that's why I'm here, isn't it? Because everything _has_ changed.

"Vesta?"

My voice squeaks despite myself, and as the woman appraises me from the doorway, I can see the way she's fighting to keep from attacking me in a full-blown bearhug. To my surprise, she suppresses it and simply murmurs, "It's mighty nice to see you again, Celia. Mighty nice."

I can't explain why, but somehow there's something so much colder in this greeting than the last. She might not know it, but I can sense it as I pass by her, smiling as I mumble, "It's nice to see you too, Vesta. Do you mind if I set down my things--?"

"Marlin can handle that," she interrupts me, grabbing my belongings and calling for her brother. "Marlin! For land's sake, get over here and help this girl with her bags. Are you a gentleman or aren't you?"

A groan sounds from behind, and to my surprise I see that Marlin has been sitting a mere few feet away from me, scowling. He stands up, and I involuntarily flinch a bit; I'm so petite beside him, there are times I feel like I'm hidden in his shadow. "Why can't she carry the damn bags herself? She's got arms, doesn't she?"

"It's not so heavy," I protest weakly, seeing Vesta's face contort in rage. "R-really, it's no trouble."

Blood rushes to her face tinted as red as the hair atop her head, and hands on her hips, she barks, "Now see here! Celia is our guest, and what's more, she's a lady. And even if you're nothing more than a useless whiny lump, I think you can find it in you to treat her with the respect she deserves!"

"Respect?" he scoffs, and I cower at the way his voice grates against my ears. "_Respect_? I think Celia should be one to talk—"

"I'll carry it myself." My quiet interruption cuts through his protests swiftly, and I turn to Vesta, imploring, "Please, Vesta. Let it go."

One by one, her fingers pry themselves off the handle, and she extends it to me, letting the suitcase fall into my open arms. Clutching it tightly, I let my eyes dare to search for Marlin's, but upon my contact, he turns away. He remains there, a silent silhouette, arms crossed and lips drawn into a frown. This is nothing new; he'd always frowned before.

Hadn't he?

"…I suppose I'll be going upstairs now," I declare, bowing my head slightly to Vesta and adding, "Thank you for everything. If you need me for anything, simply call."

I don't pause for their reactions as I let my feet start step by step up the stairs, feeling my face heat up in shame from the outbursts below. I can already hear them arguing:

"What's wrong with you, Marlin?! For land's sakes, just because you've got your own problems doesn't mean—"

"Do you ever just shut up?"

"I wish that _you_ did! Lord, the whole reason Celia is here is to overcome her problems, and you're just bringing them up again, like you don't even—"

"They're my problems, too. And she's the one who started them, right? It's all her fault. If I don't blame her, then who can I blame?"

_Please be quiet. Please stop, I'm begging you. Please, please, please—stop._

I shut my eyes and stumble onto the upstairs room, and to my relief, the voices fade into a small distant hum. Such angry voices—bitter, stinging, harsh voices. Fading voices, yes, but angry ones. I bury my head into my pillow, letting all sound vanish for a few perfect moments of silence. But they can't last forever. Nothing lasts forever.

The room hasn't changed. None of it has. Slowly I sit up and let my eyes survey the familiar surroundings: the low-hanging ceiling still bears those marks from when I accidently hit it with the broom, and on the floorboards I can see the wine stain Muffy left when trying to convince me that I deserved to try alcohol as an eighteenth birthday present. The furniture remains where I've left it, untouched, and it's hard to believe that I haven't been here for so long—that I haven't been here for a _year_.

But I'm wasting time, aren't I? The suitcase won't unpack itself.

My fingers unlatch the cold metal lock, and as I open the worn suitcase wide, I sneeze at the dust left from so many seasons of forgotten use. There is not much to see: a pale yellow nightgown sits proudly atop a single green frock, a hairbrush and toothbrush hastily thrown beside it. Undergarments remain hidden beneath them all--an embarrassing necessity, but a necessity nonetheless.

"_That's all you own? Really, Celia? Not that it's bad or anything, but wow, you really are different than those city girls."_

I bite my lip, and one by one the items are packed away where they belong. It's as I'm putting away my clothes that I catch sight of something green peeking at me from the corner of my nightstand drawer. I fumble for it, and as soon as my fingers grasp it, I recognize the feel of its cracked cover, I recognize the texture of the pages slipping out of the binding.

I know this book. But it knows me far better.

Leaning against the headboard of my bed, I peruse the pages, and ink smiles back at me, speaking memories I've all but forgotten. In these pages are my first day as a farmer, my first sleepover, my first taste of wine, my first…everything, really. So many dawns and sunsets are contained in these pages, I can scarcely name them all. So many happy times…so many hard times…so many memories.

I blink as something slips from between the pages, and I turn to a pressed flower, crumbling into a yellow powder. It coats my fingertips, leaving behind a faded scent of spring in its wake. I glance at the entries beside it, and my eyes are drawn to the final entry—a paragraph I hadn't thought to ever gaze upon again.

_Farewell, my diary. Tomorrow I'm not going to need you anymore. When my mother gave me you, she told me that I would be lonely at first, and that I'd need someone to talk to about everything. But tomorrow, diary, I'll have someone new to confide in—someone who'll be there for me always. I'll probably never write in here again, diary. But from now on, I won't need to. Jack will be there for me. Forever. _

Forever.

The room hasn't changed, it's true. The stories in these pages haven't changed as well. But suddenly as I close this small book, I am faced with a horrible truth: that I'm a stranger here. These sheets are waiting for an innocent young girl, these pages for the eager pen of a lovestruck young woman, this house for a farmhand radiant with laughter.

What am I but an intruder, a mother in mourning shamelessly searching for a place to stay?

I don't belong here. Not anymore.

* * *

"Do you need any help?"

Vesta straightens up, wiping dirt onto her apron as she glances my way. "You feel like tending the plants?" she exclaims, a little more astonished than I had expected her to be.

I point my toes inward and nod, the weight of her stare causing me to look away. The fields were a daunting task on Vesta's farm; rows and rows of crops sat proudly by one another, nearly double the size of my husband's seasonal crop. I'd helped Vesta for so many years on these very fields, without protest and without scrutiny. To be judged like this now, after so long—

"Celia, it's not like I don't trust you or anything, but I reckon you should be resting. You're pregnant, aren't ya?" The word forces itself out of her mouth—_pregnant_—with a small amount of difficulty, but it's noticeable enough, and I nod once again.

"W-well, it's not like I expect to be staying here without earning my keep—"

"This isn't like before. This is different from back then." Her stern voice echoes in my ears, and I look away meekly as she continues, "You don't charge family, Celia. Our home is your home. Don't think you have to be the one putting bread on the table."

I clear my throat. She doesn't understand—it's not just that. It's not just staying here at her mercy; it's so much more than that. "But Vesta, I want to help. Just because…well…it's _something_. I don't want to just lay around here doing nothing. I—I want to be useful, I want to do something worth doing. I want to be a help."

"Huh." The corners of her mouth tug into a smile, and she lets out a hearty laugh, shaking her head. "Same old Celia. Some things never change, eh?" I offer a weak smile in return as she rubs her chin in thought. "Well, I reckon maybe the deliveries—I'd feel safe letting you do that. There are some crates in the shed, and you could see the labels on 'em. They're from Fall, and I haven't gotten around to delivering them all yet. Would you be alright with that?"

"I'd love that," I beam, and Vesta chuckles once more.

"Ah, Celia. The one girl I know who actually goes looking for work. Same good old Celia. It's nice to have you back, missy."

"Nice to be back," I murmur. And with the lie still fresh on my lips, I walk towards the shed, closing the door behind me and enclosing myself in darkness.

Same old Celia. Same old Celia, the lovestruck shy farmgirl. Same old Celia, the pregnant widow. Yes, some things don't change--but people do, whether they want to or not. Life molds us, shapes us until we're barely recognizable, and repeatedly throws us at the obstacles ahead. You can keep smiling. You can keep fighting it. But it's only so long before that smile becomes a frail shield, and you can only fight for so long before you give up.

I don't want to give up. But it's hard to keep fighting when you don't know what you're fighting for.


	5. Chapter 5: Marlin: Doe Eyes

**Note:** Wow, I'm really late posting this. I feel awful, really. So, I'm sorry. Thanks to all my reviewers (I love you all!) and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. It was barrels of fun to write. XD

PS: Due to lack of time to reply to all reviews, would it bother anyone if I started replying in chapters? It's okay if you say no. :)

_Chapter Five:_

_Marlin_

I wasn't supposed to feel guilty.

I'd expected the expression that would flash across her face—anticipated it, even. I'd planned the words oh-so-carefully, had them ready like bullets: prepared to fire the next time she'd dare to walk through that door. And I let them loose without restraint, if only to see the look in her eyes.

That stunned, almost anguished, look in those innocent doe eyes.

I walk outside and glance at my sister; she's bent down, weeding out the fields again. For a single moment, I consider approaching her to apologize, but I let the moment pass in silence. _"Why are you apologizing to me?" _she'd no doubt reply heatedly. _"Why aren't you telling that poor girl you're sorry?"_

And why should I? What made Celia so high-and-mighty that I had to bow down to her in apology, that I needed to confront _my_ sins, but _she_ could go about as she pleased? Damn, it wasn't fair.

I _deserved_ to see that look in her eyes. I _deserved_ to see her pain. After what she'd done to me, I deserved even _more_ than that. But somehow, when her gaze flickered towards mine…

No. It was too late for pity.

"Celia gone?" I ask, clearing my throat. Vesta turns her head towards me, and her eyes narrow as they lock onto my unforgiving expression.

"What's it matter to you? You made such a damn scene about her staying here; I'd expect that you would enjoy some time to yourself."

"So she is gone," I gather, her words invoking nothing in me. Everything within me is sort of empty now; all the anger has quieted with her departure, and now there's nothing left.

Except those eyes. Those damn doe eyes.

"If it's all the same to you, I sent her to do a few errands," Vesta grunts, returning to her farm work. "Delivering crops and things. You know, chores _you_ should've done by now."

I _had_ been behind on that. I cross my arms and nod, my feet walking towards the shed for no real reason except to see for myself. I poke my head into the room, and the absent clutter wordlessly confirms Vesta's story. Then, as I take a closer look, I sigh.

"…Idiot."

Celia—the girl with the haunting doe eyes—had stupidly forgotten a crate of tomatoes.

* * *

I'm not sure why I decided to follow her. It wasn't like I cared whether or not Ruby got her shipment of tomatoes today, and I can't say I'm a big fan of deliveries and the meaningless chitchat that they ensue.

Yet I'm walking down the street, I've got a crate of tomatoes in my arms, and it isn't long before I spot a petite brunette outside the Inn's entrance. A little wagon sits by her heels, stocked with other crates like the one I'm holding. Then she turns to me, and a single word slips past those angelic lips:

"Marlin?"

I don't know if I'd call what Celia does to me hypnotic or mesmerizing or what. My whole body goes rigid, every step is shaky, my very frown is frozen. Breathing becomes all but impossible as I force myself to move forward, to ignore the furious beat of my heart, to pretend she's nothing but Nami or Muffy or Lumina.

But she's Celia. And that alone makes pretending impossible.

"You forgot one." I slam the crate on top of the wagon and turn to glare at her; it takes all my willpower to lock onto those startled eyes. "Try and pay attention next time. I don't want your mistakes making trouble for the rest of us."

Her smile fades a bit, and she looks away, nodding. "Oh, I-I'm sorry. I must have missed it somehow."

"Just be careful next time, alright?"

"I will. I promise."

The forced conversation fades into silence, and she shuffles forward, head downcast. I study her for a moment; silky chestnut tresses tumble past her shoulders from beneath a worn green handkerchief. Stains crown her faded dress, and it's tied loosely about her, sliding over the round curve of her belly.

I feel my stomach tie itself in knots, and I look at the ground instead. "So when's the baby due?"

She blinks; apparently, she hadn't expected me to turn the conversation in this direction. For that matter, I hadn't intended to, either.

"Dr. Hardy says the baby should come in a few weeks or so," Celia murmurs, her voice small and meek. "Before the end of winter, I'd think."

"Soon, isn't it?" Too soon. My mind begins to spin; she'll surely be staying at our home then. I can already imagine her laying on that bed, writhing in agony, blood rushing to her face as she screams in pain. No, I can't see that—how can I face that?

And when the baby—_his_ baby—lets out its first cry of life—

"…Marlin?"

I can feel my whole body shiver as I gaze upon her, her youthful features creased in confusion. God, she's only eighteen. _Eighteen_. Girls that young should be smiling, they should be running about carefree, they should be _living_ life.

Not waiting to release it.

"Marlin, are you alright? Your face—it's ashen."

"Let's do this later," I say instead, starting down the path. "Ruby can live without her damn tomatoes for a day."

Celia simply stares, rooted to the ground in shock. "But I'll slow you down—"

"Then follow me already, would you?"

I grab her hand firmly in my own and pull her forward, heat pulsing from her palm into my own. God, her hands are so _tiny_. Her fingers feel lost in my calloused palm—like they'll slip through the cracks without a trace. Without a word, I tighten my grip.

Hell, I'm breaking so many rules right now. Holding her hand, leading her home—I would have killed for this a year ago. I sneak a gaze her way, and I realize she's been doing the same to me as she turns away in embarrassment, caught in the act.

"What?" I accuse, more anger than I had intended echoing in the single syllable.

She trembles slightly, and her voice wavers. "Did you mean what you said?"

Everything stops as our feet freeze to the ground, that question the glue pulling us down. I swear, even my heart is skipping a beat when I turn to her, eyebrows raised. "What I said?" I repeat.

Celia ducks her head, hiding behind a curtain of chestnut locks. "What you said," she murmurs, daring to raise her eyes to my own. "Do you really blame me?"

And her hand slips from my own as I stare at her, stunned silent.

* * *

"I'm not going to marry her."

Furious, I turned away from my sister, defiance beating through my veins like liquid fire. I wanted to scream; I wanted to slam my fist against the wall; I wanted to break something so hard it could never be fixed. Yet all I found I could do was say those six words. "I'm not," I added, the expression facing me that of pity rather than authority. "And I'll be damned if you can make me."

Vesta and I had known this talk would come. It was a bomb that had waited eighteen long years to finally explode, and now that it was being brought into the open, I had set myself to do everything I could to snuff out its fire. Even so, little did I know the havoc that one flame could bring, the irreparable damage that could result.

All because of a betrothal, a promise my parents had made for me when I was fourteen years old.

"Her family's been hit by hard times, Marlin," Vesta cajoled me, seeing my face tighten in fury. "For all you know, she's a sweet girl—and Lord knows you haven't done anything to find a nice wife on your own."

"What do I care about marriage?" I spat, turning my back on her. "And she's only fourteen, for God's sakes! Who in their right mind marries someone half their age? What kind of guy do you think I am, Vesta?"

She chuckled—not the reaction I wanted. "_Scream at me, insult me," _I longed to say. "_Just wipe that damn smile off your face."_

"Marlin, there's plenty of marriages that have survived despite age differences. Twenty-eight and fourteen ain't so bad."

"It's not exactly a small gap, either. Besides, who the hell let's a fourteen year old get married?" My hands ran through my hair, and I let out a groan. "And why the hell would _I_ want to get married?"

The thing was, I _didn't_ want to get married. Living with Vesta for the past ten years had taught me more than I wanted to know about women: they take up half the bathroom, they nag, they make you come home in time for dinner. They get onto you if your laundry smells like alcohol, they complain if you sleep in, they don't stop getting onto you about your language and your attitude. Marriage was just finding someone who would do that, permanently, all for the sake of love.

Love. What a small price to sell your soul.

"Marlin, at the very least, let the girl stay here," Vesta told me in that tone of hers that says she's already made up her mind on the matter and my opinion officially means jack. "I'm not gonna make you marry the girl when she turns eighteen, but let her stay. Betrothal or not, she needs a home, and her mother desperately needs one less mouth to feed."

And since--as I have said--my opinion means jack, she did come.

I had tried to imagine what this stranger might be like as I laid awake at night, drawing pictures in my mind. Perhaps someone with Muffy's outgoing nature, her physique, and her manicured nails completely unsuited for farming. Maybe my unwanted bride was cold and distant like Nami: carelessly dressed and unimpressed by everything. Or my young fiancé may be a girl like Lumina: childish, talented, prim and sophisticated. None of those options were particularly encouraging. Hell, the thought of marrying someone as young as Lumina seemed downright sick and wrong.

Though Lumina was twelve, and this girl was fourteen. In four years, she'd be an adult, but for now, she was still a child.

When Celia entered into my home for the first time, her manner was quiet, timid, and polite. Vesta had been right—she was young, and her body had yet to completely lose some of its stick-straight figure. It'd be fair to say that she'd never shared Muffy's closet; those clothes were worn, probably handed down. Loafers peeked from beneath her faded gown, and she folded her pale hands in front of her; the sun had yet to beat down on her fair skin. All I could think was that the girl was in for a rude awakening tomorrow.

"You must be Marlin," she whispered, terrified, yet curious to catch a glimpse of my face. I returned the favor, scrutinizing her shadowed features and child-like face. I didn't know what she thought of me—in fact, I still don't know—but it didn't really matter a hell of a lot to me anyway.

"We need to get something straight," I demanded, a growl creeping into my request. "I know you've been told we're supposed to get married or something." Her slow and cautious nod affirmed my statement. "Well, don't get your hopes up. I don't know you, you don't know me, and I don't believe in getting married for convenience. The betrothal was written by our parents; that's no reason for us to stop paving our own lives. So, if you have any ideas about marriage, just…drop them. Okay?"

And then, a miraculous thing happened. A smile crept its way across her lips, and she replied quietly, "…Okay. But Marlin, can you promise me one thing?"

Oh, God. _Don't touch my stuff, don't go into my room, don't forget I'm allergic to fifty-seven different kinds of foods, don't breathe my freaking air_—I'd braced myself for that and maybe a hundred more responses. But the kind voice simply requested,

"Can we still be friends?"

And I didn't have the good sense to refuse her.

She didn't have a damn clue how to work a field. She learned. She'd never used a gas stove. She learned. She had never done laundry on a clothesline. She learned.

Everyday, the world threw obstacles at her feet, and to my amazement, she kept on smiling and facing them head-on. What shocked me the most, I guess, was the fact that she'd never let herself complain. Not even one damn time. Celia would just pick herself up, grit her teeth, and plunge forward once again.

This one time, a year or two ago, I'd walked outside to see her sprawled out on the field, exhausted under the unrelenting rays of the sun. "Till the field," my sister had instructed her, and to my disbelief, she'd done it—and once completed, the newly-hoed soil ended up serving as her bed. My first thought was how pathetic she was to collapse on the ground like that. My second was how innocent she seemed, smiling in her sleep like a fallen angel on the ground. Her hair sprawled out behind her head like an auburn halo, framing her young features. I knelt beside her, despite the fact that I didn't owe her anything—that I'd never wanted to.

"Celia?" I whispered, but she barely stirred. I brought myself closer, and my breath tickled her ear. "Celia? You can't sleep on the job like this."

This time, I inspired some sort of movement, and as she stretched her arms lazily in the sun, she murmured, "Sorry," in a dreamy, half-asleep voice. She nestled closer to me, probably mistaking me for a pillow, and suddenly everything in me just melted. My resolve, my defiance, my anger—all of it melted away as I took her into my arms and carried her fragile body indoors, whispering, "You owe me, you know," as I laid her down in her own bed.

She seemed so peaceful as I brought her blankets over her slumbering form, so content as I blew out her candle. I could see the freckles that had appeared on her now sun-tanned face, the bruises that blossomed on her arms, the dirt smearing her brow. And something within me just _ached_ at how serene she was, just _beamed_ with pride that she had accomplished all she had. My heart pounded within me as I approached her once more, as my hands dared to brush the bangs from that beautiful face. God, I couldn't explain his feeling—this unspeakable joy that left sadness in its wake as I stared at her sleeping form. But I could hear those words spoken by a stranger with my voice: "I love you, Celia. Sleep well, okay?"

And I swear to God she smiled.

You won't find that story in Celia's diary. But I'll never forget it, even if it isn't forged in ink. I'll never forget how terrible that realization was, how in that moment, I just knew I had to protect her, no matter what. I had to be by her side, I had to be there to help her up when she fell, I _had_ to be.

When Vesta first let me work on her farm years and years ago, I'd taken half of the garden for myself. I tilled the soil, planted the seeds just right, and watered them everyday. I watered them every morning, every afternoon, every evening. All I'd wanted was for them to be perfect, I told myself. So help me God, they were going to be perfect and fruitful by the end of the season.

One day, I stepped outside to see my garden nothing but a mess of weeds, of wilted sprouts that couldn't pull their weary bodies from the ground. Everything had died.

I'd run to Vesta, fuming, and my sister dutifully came outside to inspect my precious crops that never grew. Bending down, she let her finger make a trail in the wet soil, and I quickly explained how I'd wanted only the best for my plants. That I'd watered them as often as I could because I'd cared about their survival.

"Sometimes," Vesta had instructed me quietly, "it's possible to care too much."

When I look back on what happened with Celia, I think it was something like that. I'd tried too hard. I'd poured out my heart and soul, hoping to win her love. But instead, all I did was drown her in it.

What's funny is I never thought I had to spell it out for her. I counted the days until her eighteenth birthday, the day where I could finally enact that beautiful stroke of fate that was the betrothal. I took it all for granted. I never thought I had to _say_ I loved her. We spent every minute together, we told each other everything; I thought by then she could read my thoughts as well as I could read hers.

On both accounts, I was incredibly and devastatingly wrong.

"You told me all those years ago," Celia had said, her sweet voice shredding my heart into ribbons. "The betrothal was written by our parents; that's no reason for us to stop paving our own lives. Tomorrow, my life is just beginning."

And as she glowed in radiant delight, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sparkling blue feather clutched in her palm.

* * *

Do I blame her? Who do I blame, if not her? Who do I throw all these broken dreams, all these stupid feelings of jealousy and betrayal, on, if not her? Who's responsible? Jack, a dead man? Was I supposed to just sit back, smile, and say, "Well, at least she's happy now"?

What about my happiness? Anyone give a damn about _that_?

Celia remains silent as she waits for my reply, eyes intent on avoiding my own at all costs. I let my eyes trace the outline of her body, of the way her lips are drawn into a small frown, of the curve shielding the child nestled within her womb.

"…Yeah." I nod, every muscle in my body resisting the few words escaping my mouth. "I do."

Her hand strays to her face, and nodding slowly, she wipes her eyes furiously. Those pale lips part, and a cracked voice answers me, "I'm glad." Like raindrops released from a storm cloud, her words fall upon my ears like quick droplets of quiet sound, choked and unwilling to be released. "I'm glad you blame me. At least you're not pitying me, right?" Her body trembles once more, but her eyes remain stubbornly dry. "It's okay if you hate me. I--I don't mind. I know you didn't want me to come back, but I just…I didn't _mean_ to complicate things. Honest, Marlin. I just want things to be like they were before. Before everything…changed."

Everything inside me is screaming for me to stay away from her, to stop making this even more damn complicated than it already is. But I've never been good at listening to myself, and I've never been good at making my brain work when Celia's in sight. My fingers intertwine with hers once more, and I gaze into her dark eyes as she flinches at my touch.

"Celia," I whisper, "who said anything about hating you?"


	6. Chapter 6: Celia: Past

**Note: **Many thanks to the reviewers, whom still need to be replied to. Sorry. But I shall not reply in chapters because, quite honestly, my replies are LONG. (Anyone who's received one from me probably knows that from experience.) It would be quite unfair to beef up my word count with that, wouldn't you say? ;)

_Chapter Six:_

_Celia_

Marlin and I spend the next few moments in silence, unable to voice our thoughts without sounding childish…or vulnerable. I let him pull me home, my hand immobile in his fist. In some ways, it's a comfort: a small sign of forgiveness. In others, it's a harsh reminder: this time he knows what will happen if he lets go.

_Do you blame me?_

I suppose we both know what I meant by that question. I suppose we both remember the way I stopped hearing his voice everyday, the way his smile vanished without a trace with Jack's proposal. I hadn't truly given it much thought at the time—I'd been preoccupied. I'd been blind.

In essence, I'd been in love.

I'm not sure what it is I've done to him; I'm not sure if it can be fixed. But I do know, as I look up at him, that I want to keep at least one more person I care about near—that I can't afford to push him away, when I feel the very fabric of my own life slipping away.

"…Marlin?"

My quiet offering earns me a quick glance, and I look away, immediately regretting my action. "Um…I'm glad that we're talking again. I did miss you when I left, you know."

He stares at me, lips forming silent words he dare not say. By now, I guess it's too late for him to reply.

* * *

"A flower for the lovely lady?"

It wasn't proper to reply—in fact, it wasn't proper for him to talk to me that way. All the same, I dared to stare into his honest eyes, to see the smile spread across his face. He and I weren't much to look at, with our hands soiled and calloused by toil and sweat crowning our brows with labor. We weren't beautiful, and we weren't lovely.

"M-me?" I stammered, cheeks reddening by the second. I centered in on the gift he humbly held before me—a Mist Moon—and found my hands moving of their own free will, taking them from his grasp into my own. "I, well, that's very nice of you. I love flowers."

My shy smile presented itself, and his deepened in response. "I'll certainly remember, then. You're Celia, correct?"

I nodded dumbly, my name sounding so much more exotic when his voice gave it sound. "And you—you're the new farmer, Jack?"

"I am." He ran a hand through his tangle of brown curls, and added, "I hope that you don't think of me as competition. I'm just honoring my father's wishes, and—well. Fulfilling a few of my own, too, I guess."

"Such as?" I asked politely.

Jack crossed his arms and let out a little laugh. "Well, Miss Celia," he grinned, "you tell me."

You know how when your heart sets itself on something, no matter how wrong it is, you can't seem to stop it? Everything sets itself into motion: that one meeting, the next that would follow, the day you'd learn just how many Mist Moons could fill one vase. The first time your heart beats so furiously you're afraid you just might die of joy.

None of that was supposed to happen. In some ways, I was never supposed to _meet_ Jack. Everything had been planned for me, planted in rows calmly waiting for fruition. Who would have known that I'd sow the very weeds that would choke that future? That I'd let myself stray away from the field prepared for me and choose to grow on a beaten path?

But the flower that grows in the path forgets: it can be trampled upon. After all, not every blossom can survive outside white fences.

* * *

"Celia? You okay?"

I bob my head in reply, eyes fixed on the plate of eggs sitting before me. I poke it cautiously with my fork; as much as I love Vesta, she's a better farmer than a chef, and I have yet to trust her with an eggbeater as readily as I would with a hoe.

"They'd be smiling at you, but I ran out of bacon some time ago," she apologizes, placing a cup of orange juice beside me. "Marlin hasn't offered to go up to Mineral Town for me in ages; getting that boy to order a grocery list or two is like pulling teeth."

I smile at that despite myself. I could picture that argument between the two of them a little too vividly:

"_Marlin, for land's sakes, it won't even take you a whole day!"_

"_I don't give a damn about what we eat in this house! Isn't that your job, anyway?"_

"_If you don't watch that tongue of yours--!"_

"We having breakfast already?"

Speak of the devil. Subconsciously, I glance away from the man seating himself beside me; yesterday's conversation is too vivid in my mind for my liking, and I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to say. Even 'good morning' sounds false on my tongue.

The clink of eggs heaped upon his plate sounds as Vesta doles them out, and Marlin stares at them blankly. "Vesta, what the hell is this?" he accuses.

"Your breakfast." The redhead slams a fork by his plate, and narrowing her eyes at him, she adds, "I reckon you ought'a be grateful that I made some for you at all."

With her eyes set upon him, Marlin's cornered into picking up that fork and stuffing some of the food into his mouth—something he no doubt wouldn't be doing if Vesta's glare wasn't as intimidating as it was. It sits in his mouth awhile, and he gazes back at her, an unofficial staring contest ensuing.

Vesta crosses her arms. "Eat it. I ain't going to wait for you to spit it out behind my back, if that's what you're thinking."

He blanches, plans foiled, and for some reason I will never fathom, Marlin shuts his eyes and takes a frightened swallow. The contorted expression on his face is almost comical; apparently he shares my plight of rubbery eggs and fully functioning taste-buds. His hand reaches for the closest drink in sight—in this case, my orange juice—and gulps it down furiously, as if his throat is caught afire.

"God! I swear, Vesta, you get worse and worse with each dish you butcher," he gags, pushing the plate away.

"Stop your whining and be a man, why don't you?" she snorts. She's frowning, but deep down, I can tell she's secretly pleased. It's a well-known fact that a surefire way to make Marlin frown is to stuff some of Vesta's food down his throat. I cast my own plate a wary look, and briefly consider suggesting we make the meal fertilizer for the season's crops. No sense wasting it.

"Besides," Vesta continues, "if you don't like my cooking, why don't you get someone else to do it? You could get off that bottom of yours and whip something up for us."

Somehow, the image of Marlin cooking seems more than a bit amusing, and I chuckle softly to myself. That poufy chef hat wouldn't balance atop those unruly black curls, and there was no chance of catching him in an apron. And as for the actual cooking—who knew if Vesta's difficulty was a genetic fault?

"You know, I wouldn't mind cooking for us again," I offer. I'm somewhat surprised to hear myself speak, turning from Marlin to his sister imploringly. I can see the lines around Marlin's face relaxing in relief: "_Thank God we're spared_." Vesta studies me a moment more, then when she sees my proposal is genuine, she nods.

"Alright then, missy. From now on, you'll be the one fussy-britches over there has to see to complain about his food." She swerves towards Marlin, and barks, "But I better not hear one smartass word out of you, ya'hear?"

His blue eyes flicker my way, then center on Vesta. "Why the hell," he said finally, "would I do anything that might make me choke on one of your God-awful eggs again?"

For a moment, there's a moment of chilling silence as they stare each other down. Then, the unexpected happens:

I start to laugh.

Giggles erupt from my throat against my will, and covering my mouth in embarrassment, I close my eyes against Vesta and Marlin's questioning stares. How serious they both look: Vesta's determined and almost bear-like scowl facing Marlin's blank deadpan expression—and all over eggs, really! I'm not sure why I'm laughing so hard over the whole thing, but tears are springing to my eyes as I double over, clutching my sides until they hurt with laughter.

"Celia?" Vesta asks me at length. "You alright?"

I tell her I'm fine. What I don't tell her is that I haven't laughed this hard since Jack was alive, and there's a part of me that's ashamed it's only taken three weeks for me to do it.

* * *

In some ways, moving back to Vesta's home had been like stepping into an old pair of shoes; you can feel the familiar imprint you've left behind, but something's different and doesn't fit quite right. There are mornings I sit awake in bed, holding my breath as I view my old bedroom walls and actually wonder if everything had been a dream. For a few minutes, I can trick myself into believing that I'm still a girl, that I've never left this house and faced the trials of the outside world.

Then I blink, and the dream shatters.

It's another night like those as I sit awake in bed, this time awakened by a sharp kick from the child slumbering within me. In this room, this beautiful sanctuary of the past, I can feel who am I slipping, day by day, into who I _was_ all those years ago. I'm dying to be that girl, but I can't be: I have to be the woman brave enough to handle her responsibilities, to take the blame, to raise a child.

Already, I'm laughing. Already, I'm calling this place 'home.' Am I overcoming the past, or merely…immersing myself in it?

I sit up. The covers are flung from my bed as I dash to my nightstand drawer, fingers groping for a pen and the book lying at its bottom. I carry it to my bed, and flipping through the pages, find a new page. Fresh ink bleeds onto the page as I taint its surface, writing in the moonlight. The words are different now, slanting downward when before they had threatened to tilt off the top of the page. What to say now? How to begin, after all this time?

_Dear Diary, _I begin, biting my lip. _I guess even 'forever' has its end._

* * *

**End Note:** Argh, it's so disjointed! I'm sorry. T.T Next chapter will be better. Promise.


	7. Chapter 7: Marlin: Jellyrolls

**Note: **Aw, my reviewers are too good to me, I swear. This chapter is…er…okay, so once again, I hate the flow. Part one of it and part two were written at different times, which is why I think they don't quite connect well.

_Chapter Seven:_

_Marlin_

"I'm so damn stupid."

I cross my arms on the countertop, the smell of alcohol and intoxication clogging my senses. It's a fairly busy night at the Blue Bar, and as I wait for my Stone Oil, Muffy busies herself traveling to-and-fro to please all us loveless men. We're the regulars: Gustafa, who lost Nami to the allure of travel long ago; Grant, whose wife loves Brussels sprouts more than she'll ever love him; and Patrick, who has yet to let Muffy strut her stiletto heels out of his dreams. We're a sorry lot, but if misery loves company, we've got it all right here.

"So stupid—damn it all, Muffy, I need my Stone Oil," I groan, slamming my head down. The quiet clink of glass sounds by my ear as the blonde places my drink beside me, filled to the brim. It's just my luck that Griffin is handling the others tonight; I've got Muffy all to myself, for whatever good that is.

"Honey, if this has anything to do with Celia, I'm sure it ended badly," she assesses. She leans on the counter anyway, eyes staring at me as they wait for me to pour out my heart and soul.

It's kind of disconcerting, to be honest.

"Why do you think everything I have to say is about Celia?" I complain.

"Because it usually is."

"To hell with conformity."

I down my glass, and she purses her lips in thought, already reaching towards me for a refill. "So what's up, then?"

"Celia," I admit. Dammit.

A smile toys with her lips, and as she prepares my next drink, Muffy says, "Either I've got woman's intuition down, or I've been a barmaid for too long, huh?"

Or maybe I'm just easy to read. Either way.

"So is this about Jack, or Celia, or what?" she inquires, handing back the newly-full glass.

"Both. Neither. I don't know," I reply, shaking my head. "It's…complicated. One moment, all you want is to be alone, because being with someone hurts too much to bear. And the next, you're completely and totally...damn, what's the word…"

"Dependent?" she offers.

"I don't know, sure. Dependent. Though I guess it's more like you want them to be dependent on _you_. Am I making sense?"

"Not really, but I've got all night," Muffy grins. "And if we get you drunk enough, you're sure to tell me all about it and then some."

It's actually a pretty tempting offer; there's something freeing about being able to proclaim your insecurities knowing you'll forget you ever voiced them. I stare into the murky depths of my drink, and sigh. "I'm doing it again, Muffy," I say softly, my hand tightening into a fist. "I'm falling into the same damn rut I did years ago. I—I'm pathetic. One glance, one talk, and suddenly everything I've put behind me just resurfaces itself. I have no control over my emotions, I guess."

I don't think the alcohol is what's affecting me as I shiver, truth's cold hand grabbing hold of my heart. Self-control. That's what I need. Self-control: the ability to pick and choose which emotions to react to, and to omit the ones that hurt me. Hell, the ones that already _have_ hurt me.

A sad, knowing laugh creeps past the blonde's lips, and I feel a manicured hand rest atop my palm. "Marlin, that's human, you know. We all make the same mistakes over and over again. How else can we learn, if we don't screw up every once and awhile?" She pats my hand reassuringly before pulling it away. "We all play with fire until we get burned."

Drunken laughter fills the silence between us as Grant raises his drink high and announces he doesn't give a damn about Samantha, or any other woman for that matter. Sure, it's easy to say all that when you're not thinking. Everything's easier when your brain goes to mush and your conscience goes blank. People make all sorts of mistakes when they're drunk. It's all too simple to say you didn't mean anything if you weren't thinking straight to begin with.

So what's your excuse when you're stupid and sober?

"I know it's too late. I know she's mourning. Hell, I know I don't have a chance with her—that I never did. But as much as I should hate her, as much as I should give up…I'm burning myself again, Muffy." I shut my eyes, clenching my hand into a fist. "What the hell is wrong with me? She still loves him. Damn it all, she still loves him. She's probably still falling apart inside, and by now you'd think I'd have let go, but…but I…dammit!" My fist pounds against the countertop, and I lay my head down in shame, my unsaid words screaming in the silence.

Stone Oil trickles down into my glass as Muffy prepares one more drink, handing it to me. "From one broken heart to another," she smiles. "This one's on the house."

And together we toast to heartache.

* * *

Little things make all the difference in life. Whether it's the small pink towel that decided to sneak itself by your own washcloth, or the extra plate by yours at the table, or the sudden ability to smell dinner and actually look forward to it, one little thing—one _person_—can make all the difference. Ripples spread from the smallest disturbances. Everything shakes, everything trembles. Everything changes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The defendant's watering can clatters to the ground as she jumps with a started yelp. She'd been standing there for a while unnoticed, humming a pleasant tune as she watered the crops. Now, her wide brown eyes survey me as she pants heavily, murmuring, "O-oh, Marlin. You scared me."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't be out here." I bend over, picking the watering can off the ground and holding it accusingly in front of her startled face. "Any reason you decided you should work the field? Because I can think of at least a dozen more as to why you shouldn't."

Celia wrings her hands, biting her lip. "Vesta wasn't up yet, so I thought I'd help her out," she mumbles. "She doesn't have to do everything by herself, you know—I don't mind helping."

Her arm reaches towards the watering can, but I yank it just out of her grasp. "You idiot. It's only, what, a few weeks until you go into labor?"

"That makes no difference," she argues, jumping once more to get the can. Her face has become red with the effort, and as she hops up once more, I pull it away further. "Marlin, I'm pregnant, not crippled!" she exasperates. I grin, enjoying this game a little too much for my own good. Celia gets worked up so rarely; it's frankly a funny thing to watch. She gets this childlike pout, puts her hands on her hips, and tries (but fails) to keep her voice rational and level.

"You know, I can go at this all day," I remind her. "If you really want to help out, you're not going to be able to use this watering can." I jerk my head towards the door, and add, "Besides, Vesta'll be waking up soon anyway, and she can get pretty damn hungry early in the morning."

Celia's face instantly paled. "I—I said I'd cook, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did."

She sucks in a deep breath. "I completely forgot. I'd better go do that now—if I hurry, I can finish everything up by the time she comes downstairs, but—"

"Celia, this is Vesta, not the Wicked Witch of the West, alright? She won't send her flying monkeys after you if you don't make breakfast right on time." I tuck the watering can under my arm and start to go inside, Celia following behind me. "But if you're so damn worried about it, I'll help."

"Help cook?" she repeats, stunned.

"Why the hell not."

I'm going to be honest; I know little to nothing about cooking. What I do know came mostly from surviving years of my sister's cooking, which means I know enough to fix myself the country equivalent of a microwaveable dish. Meaning, of course, soup and salad.

"Have you ever made pancakes before, Marlin?"

I shake my head, and she smiles, already tying the cooking apron about her waist. "It's kind of fun. Making the batter, pouring it, flipping them—I don't know, it's just a fun breakfast food." She blushes suddenly, a bowl in her hands. "N-not that food is fun…er…it's the cooking, I suppose."

"I'll take your word for it," I shrug. She's already attacking the fridge, pulling out eggs and milk and a lot of other ingredients that I'll probably never remember the next time I'm stuck baking pancakes. There's something smile-inducing about seeing her struggle to bend over and peek into the fridge with that swollen belly, but at the same time, it's sort of painful to watch. Mostly because, I guess, I'm used to seeing a girl in that apron, and right now I'm watching a woman.

"Something wrong?"

She blinks at me, and I turn away, realizing I've been staring. "What do we do first?" I ask, and she relaxes her tense features as she begins to explain.

"Well," Celia beams, "we've got to get the batter made, so what we do to begin is…"

Everything sort of fades into the background, a sweet girl's voice speaking kind words as she gestures with her hands and points to the faded pages of a cookbook. Celia's smiling, and that strikes me as something both familiar and unexpected. Celia, from the day I met her, has been nothing but a beautifully optimistic and compassionate creature, giving away smiles for free. There had been a small, but noticeable, change between this new Celia and the Celia from before. One had seen the beauty in the world; the other the harsh reality.

Now, strangely enough, there seems to be a merging of the two: a benevolent grin plastered on a tired and weary face.

"Do you understand?"

I nod, even though it's clear to both of us that I'm lying. She sighs, and suddenly I'm being pulled by the arm and having an egg thrust into my hands. "Now crack it on the side," Celia instructs me, and I do so slowly; her hand is still upon my own. Fractures appear on the egg's white surface, and soon it cracks, and Celia directs me to the bowl. "Pour the yolk in."

The batter is beginning to take shape, and I steal one more glance her way, watching how focused she is on her work. She blows a strand of brown hair from her face, and brings the spoon round and round, stirring the batter into an even mix. "Do you remember the last time we cooked like this together?"

To my amazement, it's my voice that's spoken, and she glances up at me in surprise. "Y-yes…that picnic for Nina," she replies, the memory floating back into both our minds. "That was the spring before last, wasn't it? When we made the pastries."

"You worked all day making those damn things," I remember. "Those strawberry something-or-other—"

"Jellyrolls!" Celia finishes, grinning from ear to ear. "Nina had told me she'd loved them when she was young. And I had to send you—"

"All the way to the middle of nowhere to find all the freaking ingredients," I continue, shaking my head. "And when you finally started making them—"

"I slipped and fell into you, and the first batch squirted all over us!" she giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. "I couldn't get the jelly stains out for days."

God, it feels good to hear her laugh again—to hear _me_ laugh again. For a few moments, we let the past consume us in all its innocent and untainted bliss, and we can forget that there's a baby about to born, that there's a husband who's dead, that there's a rift between us that has yet to heal.

"Marlin?" She leans back against the counter, and her smile fades ever so slightly as she cocks her head at me. "Do you ever wish…that we could go back again? Do it all over?"

_Every day_, I want to scream. _Every damn day. _Instead, I shrug, looking outside the window. "What would you do differently?" I ask instead, and the question causes her to flush in embarrassment.

"I—I don't know," she murmurs, relaxing her grip on the spoon. Her eyes glance upward in thought, fixed upon the ceiling. "I guess…I guess I'd appreciate it more. Be more thankful for what I have, you know?"

"But you wouldn't change anything," I mutter, turning away. "You'd keep everything the same."

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.


	8. Chapter 8: Celia: Blind

**Note: **Chapter eight always seems like a milestone to me for some reason…hm. I dunno. But after chapter eight, I always feel like I'm finally delving into the heart of the story. And I'm quite excited that FF has reached this turning point! XD (I know it seems like the story's not going anywhere, but I promise that it is. Pinky swear.)

_Chapter Eight:_

_Celia_

"So, how long do you think it will take?"

I'm seated at Muffy's vanity, idly playing with the assortment of brightly colored makeup lying by her mirror. "Um, how long will _what_ take?" I ask, unscrewing the lid to one of the many tubes of lipstick. It's a newer shade; unlike the others, its metal container is free of smudges. Shiny. New. Polished.

"You like it?" Muffy inquires, coming over to get a closer look. "Passion Pink. Gorgeous color, huh?" I nod, and she slips her slight body beside my own bulging shape. Squeezed together on a tiny seat, Muffy sighs. "Oh, Celia, it's been what, three weeks? Four? Winter will be ending soon, you know. And that baby's on the way."

"Oh, well the baby will be here before then," I tell her, smoothing out my dress. "So, it shouldn't take too long."

She opens her lips, then closes them, her porcelain features conflicted. Puckering her artfully-plucked brow, Muffy tries once more. "No, Celia, I know when the baby's due. That's not what I meant—not at all."

I study her; there's an air of unease lingering about my friend, and I can't for the life of me remember a time where Muffy has been so reluctant to talk about anything. Even when a relationship of hers would turn sour, Muffy always had no trouble talking about it—sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, but always completely open and unabashed about it.

In fact, the whole reason I'm at Muffy's right now is because she's taken it upon herself to make sure I'm moving on. "We haven't had a sleepover since you got married," she'd complained. "It's high-time we revived the tradition." Vesta was incredibly supportive of the idea, Marlin indifferent, and I accepting of Muffy's stubborn will.

But of all the things I had expected of her…this wasn't one of them.

"Um—what baby names are you thinking of?" the blonde asks instead, blushing. My curiosity peaks—she'd hedging—but I know better than to push the subject, and I say simply,

"Oh. Um, maybe Jack if it's a boy, but…I don't know." To my embarrassment, I'm now the one blushing. "I'm not sure it'd fit."

In silent understanding, Muffy nods, and adds, "So, what if it's a girl?"

I blink. "A girl?"

"Yeah. A cute little girl." Muffy lets a smile steal across her lips as she continues, enraptured: "You could dress her up in frilly dresses and lace, tie her long silky hair in braids, go to the mall together on a mother-daughter date—oh, God, a daughter would be wonderful." Her green eyes aglow, Muffy stares distantly into the mirror's reflection, beaming. "Celia? If you have a daughter, you have to promise to let me spoil her. Okay?"

I smile. "Okay, I promise."

A few moments of silence pass, light winking off the compact mirror Muffy's turning absentmindedly in her hands. Closing it, she turns to me, and her gaze meets my own.

"I always loved the name Evelyn for a girl," she admits, leaning against the counter. "Eve. You know what Evelyn means?

I shake my head.

"_The Beautiful One_." Muffy lays her head down amidst all the lipsticks, blush, and mascara scattered on her vanity, and sighs. "What more could a girl ask for, than to be born knowing she was beautiful?"

Her eyes close, and the wrinkles on her forehead relax—wrinkles that are faint, but exist nonetheless. There are lines etched about her mouth, laughing lines, but even while veiled beneath foundation, they show: marks of the stress she's had to bear.

"Uh…w-well…Celia means _The Blind One_, you know," I offer, clearing my throat. Her head snaps up from the counter; my words have done their work, and her lips part in unexpected laughter.

"Are you serious?! Haha, that's terrible!" she giggles. Blonde curls tumble behind her as she shakes her head, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Oh, but that's not the worst of bad names, though. Ah! Actually—" She bends over, manicured hands reaching into the drawers of her vanity to bring forth a fat little brown book. "I bought this on a whim once. It's a book of baby names," Muffy explains, handing it to me. "There's a list, with the meanings and everything. Go on, give it a look."

I thumb through it, pausing. "Fabia, _The Bran Grower_?"

"Ew, bran is just nasty, Celia. Don't name your kid _that_."

"How do you grow bran, anyway?" I wonder aloud. I earn a playful shove for that, and as punishment for my farming reference ("_You work too much, Celia—I swear, it's going to your brain"_), Muffy chooses the next name.

"How about this one?" she suggests. "Maureen."

I look over and raise an eyebrow. "…That means _The_ _Little Bitter One_."

"Really?! I knew a Maureen in college, and she was the sweetest thing—weird, huh?" But then another name calls her attention, and she points to it excitedly. "Wait, Celia, look at this one: Gertrude, _The Mighty Spear Warrior_." She grins. "I dare you to name your kid that."

I wrinkle my nose in horror. "Gertrude? That's sort of cruel, don't you think?"

"True," she nods. "More of a grandma name than a baby name…a spear-hurling grandma, anyway." We both imagine Romana throwing a spear despite ourselves, and the grins are back brighter than before as the image of her tossing her umbrella with a battle cry crosses our minds. Muffy stands up and flops herself down on her bed, giggling. "Okay, okay, but seriously—what names do you like? Now that we've ruled out bran growers and bitter children and spear-throwing grandmas."

"Um." I pause. I trace the words inside the pages, letting my fingers travel of their own accord. "Erika's kind of nice."

Erika: _The Powerful One. _A strong and beautiful name, suited for a strong and beautiful person.

"And then there's Monica…"

Monica: _The Wise Counselor._ Direct, intelligent, and musical: meant for a brilliant child.

Hesitating, I fold my hands in my lap, and harbor a gentle smile. "But I've always liked the name Lily."

Lily:_ The Lily Flower_. An innocent name that means nothing more than what it is. No false pretenses. No misunderstandings. Honest.

"A flower name, huh?" Muffy rolls over and stares at me upside-down from her bed. "That doesn't surprise me, Celia. Petunia, Rose, Violet, Lily--you've been a farmer for so long, I guess plants just pop into your brain like that."

"But that's not really fair, Muffy," I tease. "I don't accuse you of naming your children after designer brands."

She rolls her eyes. "Because you know I've just got _so_ many children running around, Celia. Little Prada and Gucci will just about drive me mad."

A pause leaks into our laughter, and suddenly all is silent again. It's not funny. Muffy's love life isn't funny. There's nothing funny about her wanting a child she'll never have. Not at this rate, anyway.

Not alone.

"Celia?" An uncertain tremor echoes between the syllables. "In all honesty…how long do you think it will be?"

I stiffen unexpectedly. "How long until--?"

She pauses before answering. "It's just…you're going to have a _baby_, Celia. All by yourself, you're going to have to raise a child, and reconstruct not only your life, but build up one for this brand new human being." Muffy chews her lip, each word taxing her. "It just might…_help_…if there was someone else by your side."

I stare at her blankly; but there _is_ no one else. There can _never_ be anyone else. Doesn't she know that? What can she possibly—?

"You've got to understand." She swallows a lump in her throat, the shock apparent in my eyes piercing through her like nothing else can. "I'm not trying to be cruel, Celia. But, girl, you've _got_ to move on. Wouldn't Jack want you to be happy? To find someone else? To get his child a father?" Another pause. "I mean, don't you think Marlin, maybe--?"

"You want me…to forget, then," I whisper. I'm shaking, and Muffy wraps her arms around me, but all I want is for her to let go. "You want me to just let Jack fade into nothing—how am I supposed to do that, Muffy?" Tiny pinpricks of sorrow pierce my eyes, tears that I've kept hidden so well for so long. I wring my hangs in my apron, my nails digging into the fabric; no, no, no, it's not that simple. How am I supposed to stop loving him just because it's convenient, just because I've passed the allotted amount of time customary for mourning? Time constraints are for planting seeds. Convenience is for shop hours and hotel service. Not for death. Never for death.

"Honey, no, don't cry," Muffy pleads with me, unaware that I'm just as unwilling to see myself cry as she is. "I know it's hard—it's hell, I know. But people pick themselves up, Celia. They go on. They fall in love again. They mend their lives. You deserve that as much as anyone else. Maybe even more."

"But I…I…" I wipe my nose; to my complete shame and disgust, it's running, and I can't control my own body as I shudder, crumpling in Muffy's arms like a paper flower. "I just can't!"

Dark, knowing eyes. A cocky smile. That unruly tuft of brown hair upon his head. The soft touch of his lips. The way his hands traveled around me as he whispered in my ear, how he smelled of sweat and the earth as his skin brushed up against my own.

Finding someone else would replace all that. Finding someone else would replace _him_, period. And I've already lost him once.

I can't do that to myself again…can I?

"Forget I said anything," Muffy soothes. "Forget all about it, okay?" She brings the book to me again, and flips it open, a forced smile tugging at her lips. "Here, let's see some other names—"

But I am only interested in one name, and searching through the pages I tear my gaze from one name to the next, desperate to see the one I hold precious above all others.

Jack: _May God Protect Him_.

* * *

I'd never gone to a carnival before until Jack flashed two brightly colored tickets in front of my eyes. "Wanna go with me?" he'd asked, and surprised, I nodded. Oh, of course I had heard all sorts of wonderful things about them: the clowns, the acrobats, the lion tamers—but apparently a carnival was slightly different than I'd expected.

"You're thinking of a circus," Jack chided me as he led the way, my arm locked in his own. "Carnivals are…they're kind of a mix of performances and a watered-down amusement park."

"O-oh." I lowered my expectations somewhat, but smiled nonetheless. "Well, I'm sure it'll be fun anyway. I can't wait to see the performers—will there be any clowns, do you think?"

"Why?" he teased, his grin widening. "You scared of them or something?"

I laughed and shook my head, blushing despite myself. "No, of course not! I just…wanted to know if they were as funny as they say."

"Well"–and here his arm slid round my waist—"I'd rather you got scared."

I started. "W-why?!"

"Because that way," Jack admitted, his eyes shining, "I'd get to protect you."

Magicians wield illusions and smoke to trick your eye. Clowns paint on a smile to make it easier to laugh when the world is tripping you from under your feet. Cotton candy disappears on your tongue before it gets too sweet to bear.

What people do is very simple. People simply blind themselves by completely ignoring what's in front of their faces. I am no different.

"Celia? You okay?"

I turned to him, the wind tossing about his perfectly disarrayed tresses, and felt my heart sink lower and lower at his concern.

_No. I'm not okay. This is wrong, Jack. This is wrong, so wrong, and if I were only brave enough to tell you—to tell Marlin—then maybe…maybe I…_

"Can we go on the Ferris wheel?" I asked instead.

"That's not an answer."

I threaded my fingers between his own, my eyes begging him—oh, Goddess, _pleading _him—to accept my simple request. "Can we?" I repeated, my voice soft and distant. "I—I've never been on one before. And it'd be nice…to see the view."

_Please. Just forget._

He couldn't refuse me—he never could. Soon I found myself seated in the cramped space, chewing gum under my seat and scattered graffiti meeting my wary gaze. Shuddering, I turned my eyes to the sky instead. My stomach lifted along with the wheel of the ride, reaching closer and closer to the stars above. So close it seemed we'd crash.

"…You're not scared, are you?"

This time, there was no humor in his voice, and he pulled my trembling body close, letting my head rest upon his shoulder. The faint scent of cotton candy left his lips, coinciding with the smell of popcorn mixed with fall breezes. I drank it all in. I shut my eyes tight, letting myself be hypnotized by anything but the sights below. More than anything, I wouldn't let go--_couldn't_ let go. The wheel kept spinning, round and round, until I lost all sense of feeling while numb in his arms.

"Open your eyes, Celia. Just for a moment." I hesitated, but he chuckled quietly at my alarm. "Don't worry," he assured me. "I won't let you fall."

Stirring, I let one eye open hesitantly, waiting for my stomach to flip again as I surveyed the sky and the ground below. Instead, I turned to Jack—safe, close, familiar Jack—and he pointed upward. "Just look," Jack said quietly. "Look, Celia."

The moon hung like a pendant overhead, a pure white sphere dangling from a chain of stars. They sparkled, glittering diamonds in a sea of night, and my breathing quickened; everything seemed too near, too terrifyingly close for comfort. I wanted to step down, to view this beauty from afar, where everything was safe.

Yet.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Jack leaned back, relaxed and almost awestruck as he stared at the sky. "It's incredible—a completely different view up here."

"But still, it's the same sky," I finished. Shyly, I let my eyes gaze upward once more. "It's kind of frightening to get this close, but…that's part of the beauty, isn't it?"

Finding yourself so close to what is forbidden. Realizing you're only a few inches away from hurting everyone you know. Knowing there's nothing more seductive than being so close to _him_, knowing fully well that you're promised to someone else.

"Celia…"

Sin and love aren't supposed to go hand in hand. You don't lie to the two people who love you most; you don't let passion rule over your conscience. You don't hide behind the first person who ever let you _choose_ to love him, lift your head to the stars, and let your lips meet his without a fight.

You don't betray those who love you with a kiss in the dark.

I can say I didn't know better. I can say I never meant to hurt anyone—not Marlin, not Vesta, no one. I can say whatever I like, but the only person it'll comfort is myself, and I'm not the only one hurting. I'm just the only one trying to pretend that I don't feel a thing…and I'm the only one completely falling apart.

I suppose, in the end, I've just always been _The Blind One_.

* * *

**End Note:** Before anyone says anything, yes, I know there are other options for the meanings of Evelyn and Jack, and possibly the other names. I looked at about three different sources, and chose the ones best suited to the passage. However, all meanings were found from a real reference; I did not make them up.


	9. Chapter 9: Marlin: Loss

**Note: **Ahh! I'm late, I'm late, I'm late! (For a very important date XD) Sorry, guys, but this chapter will totally make up for it! I swear, you'll love this latest installment. Lots of plot-filled goodness. (Yes, I said plot. There is, indeed, a plot.)

_Chapter Nine:_

_Marlin_

"You're quiet today."

She turns to me slowly, laundry ready to be folded in her hands. Her brow furrows, and Celia replies simply, "Um, am I?"

"Yeah. Kinda." I cross over and grab some clothing out of the basket—one of Vesta's aprons—and let my fingers fold the stiff, sundried material into something resembling a triangle. "You've just sort of kept to yourself these past few days."

I hadn't been meaning to watch her, but I couldn't miss the listless movements from one room to the other, the blank smile so in tune with her soft hello, the way her eyes had stopped staring into reality but into a place so distant I couldn't reach it if I tried. Like a ghost, she simply drifted: apart from life yet forced to walk alongside it.

Vesta has been trying to get her to see Muffy more lately, but the last time they talked was sort of when all this started happening—which is to say, I guess, when all this started getting _worse_.

"Oh, it's just been a busy end of the season," Celia assures me, brushing away my worries with a wave of her hand. "There's a lot to think about." There it is again: that stupid, falsely cheerful voice. It's a pale imitation of the bubbly one she used to handle with ease, and it grates on my ears, a mocking echo of the past.

The stupid apron won't fold, so I toss it back into the basket and grab for something a little more up my alley. Like, for example, socks.

"Huh. Yeah, potatoes and carrots can be a real stress-factor," I comment, and the sarcasm travels breezily over her head. "You can, you know, say something if it's bothering you."

"If what's bothering me?"

Him. The baby. Anything.

I shrug. "You know. Stuff."

Her fingers catch on the dress in her hands, and it slips to the floor from her trembling fingers. Before she can squat, I sweep it up from the ground and hand it to her, thanks shining in her eyes. "S-sorry. I'm getting awfully clumsy lately."

"S'okay. We all drop things." I return to my socks, and lying them in their white rows, add, "Feels weird, doesn't it? Doing this again."

A small smile creases her lips. "You still haven't learned how to fold clothes," Celia accuses me, teasing. "How'd you get along without me?"

"I didn't."

The sharp, unexpectedly honest answer cuts like a knife, and Celia lowers her eyes to the dress she's folding, square by square. Her fingers run over the fabric slowly, and I can hear her whisper, "…I know how you feel."

For once, I believe her, and inwardly berate myself for bringing up that one damn topic I know she wants to avoid. _Jack_. Jack, Jack, damn freaking Jack. Even now, as we fold laundry, he's there, forming a wedge between us that's existed ever since she first started sneaking out by his side.

"Do you think it hurts more?" She's speaking again, and I stop brooding long enough to hear her question. Clearing her throat, she adds, "When someone's gone. Do you think it's worse than seeing them walk away, still breathing and alive?"

It's hell, giving yourself up to someone who'll cast you aside, and losing everything while they lose nothing. It's hell, letting someone inflict scars on your heart, while theirs remains untainted. But nothing compares to the torment of seeing her lips upon _his_, when you know _yours_ were made so that hers would fit upon them.

My hand tightens into a fist, and I can feel my nails digging into my skin like daggers. "I can't answer that," I say instead, looking away. "I'm…not the person who'd know."

There's more than one way to lose someone. You can lose them to death, and mourn the time lost between you. You can lose them to disease, to distance, and to time. You can lose someone to another, and, as far as I know, that's the greatest pain of all.

But you can't judge that, can you? Not when you've only felt one pain, and never suffered the others. You don't have that right.

A hand alights itself upon my shoulder. "I'm sorry," she breathes, and then her voice cracks as her fingers slip away, clutching her sides instead. "I—I'm sorry." I close my eyes, wishing to God that she'd stop pitying me, when it's not doing me any good at all. It's too late for that, now.

"Celia, it's fine," I mutter, when we both know it's _not_ fine. "Stop crying, alright?"

I turn, and she's doubled over, her hair cascading over her face like a brown curtain. As she clutches her arms protectively over her womb like a shield, she gasps. "N-now…Marlin, I—I think it's—"

My blue eyes widen. "The baby."

Good God. Not now.

* * *

I hate doctors. I always have. I hate the way they always smile at you, promise needles don't hurt when they do, and try to make jokes about how crappy your health is. But I guess, really, what I hate is knowing that for once, there's someone out there who has more control than I do over my own life.

Or, in this case, Celia's.

I'd half-dragged, half-supported her to Dr. Hardy's, cussing at the top of my lungs about how damn inconvenient it was that Vesta was in town this afternoon. She'd hobbled alongside me, panting, and followed me without complaint, fully trusting the stupid guy screaming profanities out of his mouth.

After practically breaking the old man's door down, and replying to his question of what was wrong ("What the hell do _you_ think is wrong?! She's giving birth, dammit!"), I watch as Dr. Hardy lays Celia on his bed and unties her apron.

"Help her," I seethe as he slaps on his gloves, Celia still moaning in pain. "For God's sake, do something!"

He lets his good eye glare at me momentarily, and comments, "Calm down, Marlin. You act like I've never done my job before." He turns his back to me, and I pretend that his stupid unprofessional boxers and sandals aren't annoying me to death. What kind of doctor goes around like that? Has a fake mechanical eye? Births a woman in his _bedroom_?

A cry from Celia attracts my attention, and as she groans to Dr. Hardy that her water broke, he nods in understanding. Cheeks burning, I look away as he pulls away her underwear, and he calls out, "Boy, get me some of the pain medicine on the counter."

"Pain medicine?"

He sighs, as if I'm some sort of idiot. "The little bottle with the red stripe. Today, please."

Celia moans again, and Dr. Hardy begins to whisper words of soft encouragement in her ear, as if simply being quiet can calm her down. I snatch the bottle off the counter, and grunt, holding it forward. "Here."

"Well," Dr. Hardy announces as he takes it from my hands, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"

I try, desperately, to ignore the look in Celia's eyes as her face contorts in pain, the way her breathing has become more hesitant, more ragged. "Maybe I should go," I say slowly, backing away. "Maybe, I mean, I shouldn't be here." Suddenly a hand latches onto my arm, and I'm pulled back to see a frightened pale face.

"Don't leave me," Celia whispers, eyes wide. "Don't let me suffer alone."

I don't want to see her in pain. I don't want to hear her shouts. I don't want to think that this is all because of _his_ child, that _Jack_ is the one inflicting all this torment upon her. This isn't my place; this is _his_ job. I don't belong here.

But still.

I thread my fingers between hers and kneel beside her on the cold wooden floor. Wiping the sweat from her brow, I let my fingers trace over the wrinkles tightening on her angelic face as another contraction racks her body. "I won't," I say simply, meeting her gaze. "I won't leave you. Not this time."

* * *

It was during the first year I'd known Celia that she had the nightmare. It was in the dead of night, and Vesta had been snoring by me loudly enough that I couldn't get some decent sleep. Bleary-eyed, I decided I might as well get some water, and walked towards the sink. That's when I heard it: the tiny pitter-patter of footsteps above.

Curiosity won over me, and I started up the stairs to see Celia huddled on the ground, hugging her pillow close. A candle burned beside her, newly lit and casting shadows on her face. She glanced up at me, shivering, and I remember how dark those eyes were, how afraid.

"Wh-what do you want, Mr. Marlin?" she swallowed. Valiantly, she tried to suppress her terror with a smile, but her body betrayed her, shaking like a leaf.

"Something's wrong, huh?" I stated, not caring for an answer as I sat down beside her, the candle between us.

"Oh, it's nothing," she mumbled into the pillow. "I mean, it's no big deal—"

"But you can't sleep." I leaned back against the wall, my shadow dancing in the light. "Sounds like a big deal to me."

She started to protest, then thought better of it and turned away, leaving only a head of tousled brown hair in my sight. "It's just a dream, that's all," Celia sighed. "Just…an awful, awful dream."

I didn't prod her, but after a few moments, she explained anyway, pressured by my silence. "I was home," she whispered, lifting her face from her pillow. "I was with my mom, and my brothers and sisters, and suddenly everything went wrong. Mom—" Celia choked on her words, then tried to mask her worry with a laugh, saying, "Well, it's only a dream. But Mom…suddenly Mom wasn't standing by my side anymore. She'd fallen, and when I tried to wake her up, she—she didn't. I had to take care of them all, every single one of my siblings—except they were multiplying, and there were more and more and more of them!" The laugh turned to bitter, frightened tears as she buried her head in the pillow again, sobbing. "But it's just a dream…just a dream…!"

Hesitantly, I brought my hand toward her, then pulled it away. What was I supposed to do now? Hug her, tell everything would be okay, hold her in my arms? I wasn't good at comforting people; I never had been. Stiffly, I kept on watching, wishing I could find a way to make those tears stop flowing. "You know," I spoke instead, "I lost my mom when I was about your age."

She blinked, curiosity causing her to hold in her sobs. Encouraged, I continued gruffly, "It wasn't anything really unexpected—she was sick, and her illness had spread. Medicine wasn't as good back then, I guess. When she finally did die, everything became real; the disease wasn't just a word doctors threw around, it was a death sentence." I paused, closing my eyes as the memory was dusted off and the words came alive in my mind. "I remember finding her clothes and taking in the smell of her perfume, just to remember what it was like to breathe in her scent when she held me the tight in her arms. I'd try, in my room, to remember her laugh and the way she'd yell at me when she caught me with Dad's secret stash of beer out back." I smiled despite myself. "God, I missed her."

Celia had inched closer to me, her bony legs poking me in the side. "I—I can't imagine how it must _really_ feel," she murmured apologetically. "To really have that happen to you."

I shrugged. "Well, over time things change. Vesta was always there, and I haven't missed much from what I can see." I didn't tell her how terrifying those first few nights were, how when the lights were off I'd light a candle, just as she had, and tell myself everything was just a dream. I didn't tell her how my father had never recovered from my mother's death, and had drunk himself dead. I didn't tell her how, right now, the very disease that had killed my mother coursed through my own veins, and how the doctors told me that, unlike my mother, I'd survive.

I didn't tell her any of this, but that night, I'd told her more than I'd ever told anyone about myself, including my own sister.

"…I'm sorry I've kept you up," Celia apologized, biting her lip. "Here I am, having nightmares over something that hasn't even happened, while you—"

"Don't worry about it." I brushed by her, lifting the candle and placing it on her nightstand. "Just get some sleep, okay?"

She got up, gangly legs poking out from beneath her nightgown, and she stood in front of me, a whole foot shorter than myself. Then, without warning, I found her arms around me in a tight hug, as she murmured, "Thank you, Marlin. I _am_ sorry."

And I wondered, fleetingly, how my mother could have known this girl would be the one I'd want to protect forever and always. I wondered if there was such a thing as fate, if it was possible to get things right the first time.

* * *

"Anytime now, Celia. Just push; I'm ready."

Her body heaves and she lets out a long, frantic cry as her stomach knots in pain. She tosses her head, her thick hair sticking to the beads of sweat upon her brow, screams in a mangled voice. I've lost all feeling in my hand for these past hours as she's squeezed it, transferring as much pain as she can to my warm, ready palm. "God help me!" she cries, writhing in agony. "Oh, God—oh, God—_**Jack**_!"

I don't know if she's praying, if she's talking to me, if she's cursing the man who's brought her to this misery. But I stroke her hand, and reply, "I'm here."

_I'm not him, but I'm here. I can't heal you, but I'm here._

Then a bloodcurdling scream rips from those perfect lips, and a second sound pierces the air to match it: higher, new, and unsure. Her fingers fall limp in my hand as her tense body jerks once more tentatively.

"Congratulations, Celia." Dr. Hardy smiles, examining the bundle in his arms with his one good eye. "A beautiful baby girl. Jack would be proud."

She wraps the child in her frail, shaking arms: a red, wailing bundle of new life. Her eyes soften at the edges, and she whispers, "Jack…yes, Jack would be proud. Wouldn't he?"

And I watch, unable to move as I see her holding the final gift Jack has given her, and know that I can never give her half as much.


	10. Chapter 10: Celia: Alone

**Note: **I seriously need to stop writing about pregnant women. It occurred to me that this is my third fic about a lonely mother. _Third_. I need to find more topics I like…this is kinda getting repetitive…and sort of odd…but to my credit, this is probably the best one I've done to date. (By the by, thanks for the huge reviewer turnout last chapter. All your comments are greatly appreciated!)

_Chapter Ten:_

_Celia_

I've only wanted to die twice in my life. The first was that God-forsaken night I first saw Jack laying dead on the ground, and the second was the day I gave birth to Cassie, my daughter.

"So, when you said your name means _The Blind One_, it got me thinking," Muffy had informed me, visiting me the day after in Dr. Hardy's tiny abode. "Apparently, there was this beautiful prophetess in ancient Greek mythology who could 'see' the future named Cassandra, and when I saw it in the book, I thought that'd be perfect! You know, so that your kid isn't blind or whatever."

"Did she have a happy ending?" was my reply, half-asleep.

For a moment, Muffy's smile faltered. "Well. No. She kinda got this god mad, and he made it so that nobody would believe her visions. She didn't love him or something. But that's totally fiction, Celia, so I wouldn't worry about it. It's a cool name anyway, right?"

And I'd laughed to myself, for if the people who could see couldn't be believed and the people who were trusted were blind, then it was no wonder we always found ourselves stumbling in circles.

"Cassandra," I'd murmured, letting the melody roll of my tongue as I held the baby in my arms. "It _is_ a beautiful name."

I gave my consent, and Muffy, squealing, exclaimed that she _knew_ I'd love it, and went off to go inform everyone and anyone of the news. Now, fully recovered and back in Vesta's home, I stroke Cassie's head of dark fuzzy hair as she lays in my arms, content. "I've never seen such a calm baby in my life," Vesta had exclaimed in approval. "Sleeps a lot, don't she?"

Still, even Cassie's sweet temperament couldn't stop her from screaming in the ungodly hours of the night: crying for milk, a diaper change, or comfort. "Why does she always have to be so damn loud?" Marlin complained once, and immediately Vesta had rebuked him, saying language like that shouldn't be used around children, and didn't he know all babies had to cry? It was the only way they knew how to speak.

I suppose that's true. Crying is a language in itself, isn't it?

I nestle Cassie in my arms, the hem of my shirt brought up to allow her to feed. She clings to me, desperate, like I'm her only lifeline in this world. Which, really, I am. And in some ways, she's my only one as well. Sometimes I look over her features and search for some remaining feature of her father's, some trace of the man I'd loved, just to prove he existed.

Her eyes. It took me some time to discover it, but when she blinked at me in her questioning way, I could see that those warm chocolate orbs reflected off a love I'd only known in Jack's sight. Some days, I treasured that look. Others, it was all I could do to look away.

* * *

"So what now?"

Muffy holds a snoring Cassie in her lap, and glancing up, repeats, "What will you do now? Is Vesta just going to let you stay here with your baby?"

"Oh. Um. I suppose." I wrap my arms around myself and look away, concentrating on the cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom outside my window. "Vesta hasn't tried to make me leave, if that's what you're saying."

"Well, I didn't think she'd kick you out or anything," Muffy defends herself, rolling her eyes. "I just didn't think _you'd_ decide to stay."

I let my brow furrow in confusion. "What makes you say that?"

"Celia, in the years I've known you, you've never been comfortable relying on other people," she sighs. Her green eyes flicker, glancing towards my baby girl, then towards me again, adding, "To be honest, I'd be shocked if you chose to keep living here. It's none of my business, but I always thought you'd go back to Jack's house and live there. You don't have to, of course, but it seemed that way to me."

Shivering despite myself, I let her words flow through my mind, painting pictures of the home I've left behind. Wooden floors. Locked doors. Vacant rooms. The bed made-up on one side. The echo of my voice as it calls out into the emptiness, awaiting an answer I'll never hear.

And Cassie, a newcomer in this lonely world of silence and memories.

"I mean to go home…eventually," I word carefully. Side-stepping the question, I continue, "Vesta has helped so much with little Cassie, I just don't know what I'd do without her. If I left now—"

My words falter as a new sound interrupts me: the creaking of my bedroom door as it opens wide. "Celia?" Marlin steps forward, and his eyes widen a bit to see Muffy by my side, baby in her lap. He runs his hand through his mop of black hair, and more quietly this time, grunts, "It's just…it's the baby's nap time. I thought you might forget. That's all."

"Oh, is it really?" Glancing towards the clock, I blink; the hands point to four o'clock, the exact time for Cassandra's afternoon nap. "Thank you, Marlin—I honestly didn't notice."

He shrugs, face turned away, and mumbles, "Well, try to be more observant next time. You can't really afford to forget, raising a baby and all." Awkwardly, he stumbles out with his hands in his pockets. The door closes, and Muffy raises an eyebrow.

"_Vesta's_ been a huge help, huh?" she remarks dryly.

I blush and shrug. It's not so much that I want to keep things from Muffy, but something in Marlin's nature seems so secret, so guarded; it'd feel wrong, exposing a side of him he so often hid. In my own defense, Vesta _had_, in her own way, helped out. Yet nothing she did compared with Marlin's diligence and his often gruff offers to watch the baby or rock her to sleep.

Marlin would never admit this, but there's something different about him when Cassandra's in his arms. Everything about him becomes so much gentler: his expression relaxes, his eyes soften, his callused hands cradle her with the protective care of an angel.

He…changes.

"I tell you what, that boy needs a woman," Muffy decides, letting me take Cassie from her arms. "It's such a crime that a handsome, hard-working, and child-loving guy can't find his special someone. You know how many girls would _kill_ for a man like that? Honestly." She crosses her legs and shakes her head, waiting for me to agree.

"Marlin's…very kind," I manage. I cross over to a little makeshift cradle Takakura had built for Cassie, and lay her down gently inside, covering her with blanket. She squirms, half-waking, and lets out a single, confused cry, wondering where the warmth of my arms has gone. "Sweet dreams," I murmur. "Mommy loves you."

On tip-toe, Muffy and I draw away from the room and close the door behind us. "You have to admit," Muffy relents, grinning, "that if Marlin's going to go gaga over any kid, he's picked the cutest one in the Valley. Who can blame him? Cassandra's adorable."

"I'm going gaga over _what_?"

Muffy jumps a foot off the ground, shrieking in surprise at Marlin's rough voice. His arms are crossed, and as his blue eyes narrow in on her, Muffy trembles, still in shock. "My God, Marlin, you scared me--!"

He clenches his teeth as a new sound echoes from my bedroom: Cassandra crying. "Now you've gone and woken her up. Great. Think before you talk next time, would you?"

Muffy's glossy lips form an indignant O and her hands position themselves on her hips. "_Excuse_ me?"

"I don't have time to deal with you," Marlin scoffs, brushing past her to enter my room. "Thanks to _you_, I've got to put her back to sleep. Idiot." He gives me what can only be considered an apologetic sigh before closing the door behind him, the sound of his usually gravelly voice suddenly softening as he speaks to my baby girl.

"On second thought," Muffy huffs, "that jerk can just rot alone all his life. People _other_ than babies like to be respected, you know."

And she promptly began one of her trademark spiels of all the shortcomings of the male species.

* * *

Nightmares don't usually make sense. Like in this one, where I'm pacing Goddess Spring, waiting for someone I don't even know. I'm staring into the murky depths of the pond, my distorted reflection grinning wryly back at me. Something's wrong. I don't know what, but something's _wrong_.

Driven by an instinct I don't understand, I'm suddenly running towards all the toyflowers sprinkling the ground and throwing them, one by one, into the water. "Please hurry!" I'm begging, each flower's stem piercing my face on the lake's surface. "I need to see you! I need an answer!"

It's no longer just flowers, but rocks, weeds, twigs, and other assorted things being thrown into the watery pit. For some reason, I'm expecting something—_someone_—and they're not coming. I gaze at my reflection once again, and it's laughing with a cruel mirth that leaves me cold and numb as I watch, speechless.

"He's gone, he's gone, and not even the goddess can bring him back," my doppelganger cackles. "He's gone, and you're alone, alone, alone, alone…"

Then a chilling scream pierces the clearing, and I realize it's _me_—shrieking like a madwoman. My body shakes, and now I'm slipping and falling into the lake, drowning, suffocating in my own screams—

"Celia! Damn it, Celia, wake up!"

My eyelids flutter open, a rough hand shaking me from my slumber. Cassandra is crying in the background, her cries the scream that had haunted my dreams. Slowly, the world comes into focus, and I recognize the face before me as Marlin's, wrought with concern.

"I'm…in bed," I gasp finally. "Home. I'm home."

"And you're scaring your little girl to death," Marlin adds, jerking his head towards her crib. "Not to mention me."

I ease myself up slowly and rub my eyes. Fresh sweat trickles down between my fingertips, and I groan, trembling. "Just a—just a nightmare. Cassie's upset, I should get up and—"

But his firm hand holds me down as he replies, "Allow me." Head throbbing, I nod. Marlin's silhouette glides towards the cradle, and I hear him whispering as he takes my daughter into his arms. "Calm down, shorty. Your mommy's fine. A little tired, but fine. So don't be afraid, okay? Nothing to be scared of."

He draws her into those strong arms, muffling her cries into his shoulder. Swinging over the side of my bed, I grip the cotton sheets and protest, "I'll hold her." He can't hear my broken and quiet voice, though, so I let my words fade into silence.

_He's gone._

I shake my head against the statement and concentrate on how Marlin rocks Cassie gently in his embrace and how her face relaxes into a trusting smile.

_He's gone, and not even the goddess can bring him back._

"So…was it a nightmare?"

Marlin's question frees me from the painful memories, and I say, "Yes. A nightmare." It's a guarded reply, and the finality instilled in those few syllables reaches him clearly, as I knew it would.

"Then I guess I won't ask you about it," he shrugs. "No reason to relive what hurts you, right?"

Cassie has completely fallen limp in his arms, boneless with faith. It's almost as if she belongs there, blending perfectly with his shirt and skin in the darkness of the night. His eyes center on her fragile body and they lose some of their hardness as they melt with warmth. "It hasn't been this bad since the first year, huh?"

"Eh?"

"The first year," Marlin repeats, finally turning my way. "You had a nightmare. About your mom."

And suddenly, the memory resurfaces: hiding in the corner of my room, staring into the depths of a candle's flame, whispering all my fears to someone who had been no more than a stranger. He'd had no reason to comfort me then.

He has no reason now.

"Celia? What is it?"

I take in a deep breath, studying this man before me who holds my daughter as if she's the most precious treasure in the universe, and I wonder if now, I'm still gazing into the eyes of a complete and total stranger. Someone I should have understood all those years ago, but took for granted along with the all-too-perfect seams of my life.

_You're alone. Alone, alone, alone._

* * *

"Celia, I just don't understand _why_."

Jack gripped my shoulder, and I turned to face him, cowering before his concern. My cheeks faded into the color of the autumn leaves surrounding us: a bright crimson red. "I love you so much," he murmured, stroking a strand of my brown hair. "And I thought you loved me, too."

"I still do." My voice was small, and I closed my eyes, realizing only then how weak I really was. My knees shook under my weight, and I stared at him, uncertain of what else to say.

Jack raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, and I continued, "It's just I…Jack…I _can't_." Biting my lip, I turned away, staring downward at Goddess Spring. Nothing but my own face stared back at me, frightened and confused. "There's so much I want to say, Jack, but the truth is I can't say any of it. The truth is that the past few seasons with you have been the most reckless and thrilling of my life, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. The truth is…is…" A single tear slipped from my eyes, shattering the lake's perfect surface.

I hadn't thought this through. I hadn't _wanted_ to. I'd been charmed, flattered beyond belief, and now I found myself facing the one door I was forbidden to enter. The one door that, ironically, I now longed to open more than anything in the world.

"Are you scared?" His voice came softly, soothing me as I jerked free of his grip. "Is that all this is—fear?"

Oh, if only. Shame washed over me in unrelenting torrents of agony, screaming in my mind all the truths I couldn't say. _"You used him." "You just loved the idea of being loved." "You wanted something you knew you'd never have." "You wanted the risk, the __thrill, the taboo of falling in love—while fully knowing you were never meant to know that joy." "You're so selfish! What would Marlin—?"_

Marlin.

"I can't do this," I choked, and I sagged to the ground, the weight of my guilt piling upon my shoulders as each accusation dragged me down further and further. "Jack, I—I—Goddess, I can't do this! Jack, I can't, I can't, I can't!"

Tears poured down my cheeks, each one a testament to my sins as my lock on them broke free. My hands flung to my eyes, trying to repress the misery engulfing me as I sobbed, repeating "_I can't, I can't_!" until all my words faded into despair. He knelt down beside me as he watched me fall apart, piece by piece. I shuddered, too weak to stop him from pulling me close to him in comfort, as he pleaded quietly, "Why can't you?"

His voice was so soft, so gentle and concerned, that I could feel my heart ache within me, wanting to crumple in his embrace like the frightened little girl I was. _"Take me away!" _I wanted to scream. "_Run away with me, to a place where no one knows our names and there are no promises to keep and no hearts to be broken!"_

"Because," I forced my lips to whisper, "I'm already promised…to someone else. I always have been."

Like a slap, my confession caused Jack to recoil from me like I was a snake—something poisonous and treacherous. Shock flashed in those eyes as he glanced at his hands, as if my skin had burned him. "You," he managed, swallowing, "you've been with me all this time—!"

"Don't hate me," I begged, a pitch higher than intended creeping in. "Jack, don't hate me, please! It's not my fault, I didn't want to—please, Jack, understand!" He'd started to leave, and that's when I insisted, "It's been my _whole_ _life_, Jack! I've been promised all my life, and there hasn't been a moment where I haven't wondered what would happen if I actually…fell in love. I didn't think it'd happen. I didn't dream of it."

Jack stood frozen at the Spring's entrance, his hands slowly uncurling from their fists. Encouraged, I continued, "Then, Jack, you showed me a side of life I didn't know existed. You showed me what it's like to fall in love, and that's what I am: _in_ _love_ with you. I've always meant to tell you that it's too late for us, but…"

But I wanted every day to last. I wanted to push it just a little bit more, just a few more days, just one more kiss. I wanted him, and I knew once I told him the painful truth, he'd leave me.

That thought frightened me more than you can ever know.

"…But I'm sorry." I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and sniffled loudly. "I'm sorry, Jack. I never meant to hurt you."

The farmer let his head nod slowly, taking a few cautious steps away. "I know, Celia," Jack murmurs, all anger drained from his voice. "I know."

He crumpled the blue feather in his hand and walked away, leaving me alone for the first time in my life. I'd been crushed, doubled over the pond crying and crying until I was convinced that there could be nothing worse than this emptiness inside.

It's only now, as I see Cassie lying in Marlin's arms, that I realize there are some things more frightening than being alone.

* * *

Muffy may not know it, but I'm genuinely scared. I'm scared about everything she's said: about coming home, about raising Cassie, about moving on. It's terror, facing such a dark unknown. Can I raise her? Can I raise her, all by myself, while managing Jack's farm and trying to keep myself intact?

I know nothing about motherhood. I'm eighteen. I'm not ready. I'm supposed to have someone to share this burden with—someone to make things right.

But he's gone now. He's gone, gone, gone, and not even the goddess can bring him back.

I stare at Marlin as Cassandra is placed once more in her crib, wrapped amidst blankets that no doubt kept us both warm on past winter nights. I wonder why it is I never noticed how there could be more to him than his gruff exterior; that maybe deep down, there laid someone understanding, hard-working, and truly kind.

"_You know how many girls would kill for a man like that?"_

No one can replace Jack. I can't love anyone like I'd loved him, and I can't fully give myself over, heart and soul, to anyone else. I know this. I believe this with every fiber of my being.

"Marlin?" His head snaps my way, and I can feel the scarlet flush of my cheeks deepening. "Um…I was thinking, maybe tomorrow, you could come with Cassie and I on a picnic to celebrate the beginning of spring. We'd been planning to go now that the weather's nice, and—"

Something akin to disbelief flickers across his features, giving way to an embarrassed kind of joy. "Yeah. I mean, if that's alright with you..."

No. Don't smile at me like that. Please, don't look at me like that—it only makes what I'm doing all that much worse.

It has nothing to do with love. It has nothing to do with the thrill, excitement, and passion that my relationship with Jack had thrived upon. It has everything to do with fear, guilt, and responsibility.

"It'll be wonderful," I nod, smiling as wide as I can force myself to.

It won't be love. But it doesn't have to be.


	11. Chapter 11: Marlin: Deceiving

**Note**: Hello all, I'm back. I do think this chapter was harder to write for some reason…but it'll get easier once I push through this one. Celia's will be more important, you could say. I'm so glad I decided to do alternating POVs; their perspective on things will be vastly different from now on. Blah, why am I still rambling in the note section? Go ahead and read!

_Chapter Eleven:_

_Marlin_

Butterflies. That's what they call this feeling, isn't it? When your insides twist and turn in anticipation, and you can't for the life of you complain because you're so incredibly happy you can't speak. You're almost afraid to, because with one word the dream could come crashing down, and that's a chance you're not willing to take. Without the dream, there's nothing but reality, and what a harsh, cold awakening reality can be.

"Marlin, you forgot the apples," Vesta chides me, pointing to a basket. Normally I'd protest or roll my eyes, but today I just shrug as I toss the red fruit in with the sandwiches and milk bottles. It's not worth arguing about. Not today.

Light pours in from the windowpane, and I squint at it, thanking God that today was a sunny day. I can hear the pitter-patter of Celia's feet upstairs as she gets Cassandra ready, and a shiver of anticipation runs up and down my spine.

Four years. For four years, Celia has never been the one to initiate _anything _between us. Not even something as simple, as stupid and meaningless, as a picnic. A small nagging voice in my head keeps whispering that maybe I'm being an idiot, getting my hopes too high. It could be a big deal, or just a misunderstanding. Who knows? Hey, if I could have read Celia's mind…things might've worked out differently by now.

That could've been my child upstairs.

"You're kinda on edge today, boy." My sister stretches her arms, her eyes locked on me suspiciously. "There more to this picnic than I know?"

"Nah. It's just…a stupid lunch on a stupid blanket with stupid people."

"So that's why you're smiling stupidly, huh?"

She grins triumphantly, and I try my hardest to force a frown. Why'd she always have to be so damn observant, anyway? "Last time I checked, smiling is a pretty normal thing, Vesta," I retort.

"For you?" She snorts. "Marlin, if that's the case, you ain't a normal guy."

"Shut up."

Fingering the corner of the tablecloth, I stare at its checkered pattern until the line dividing the red from the white becomes blurry and indistinguishable: red and white, good and bad, right and wrong…

"Hey…Marlin." I glance up at that, brow furrowing. Her voice has been lowered, no longer superior and strong, but soft as a spring breeze—like she's passing on some sort of terrible secret.

Or a warning.

"I know…things haven't been that easy for you since Celia got married. Heck, it wouldn't be easy for anyone to go through what you have. But just don't—don't expect too much, alright?" My sister approaches me and I stiffen at the touch of her hand on my shoulder. I can't break the stare of those eyes—though God knows I want to. I know what shines there all too well, and I've never wanted pity. "She's just a little girl. Just a baby herself. Things have been hard for her, too, Marlin. If she ever did want to see you in that way…I reckon it'll take a lot of time on her part. Don't push her too far, alright?"

"Don't push her?" I repeat, shoving Vesta away. Who the hell does she think she is? I glare at her—those unruly red curls, that worried frown—and think, who is she to pity me? To tell me _her_ opinion on my life, when last time I checked, she hasn't been living in it lately? "I can push her any damn way I like after what she did to me. But I'm not going to, alright? I'm not some lovestruck idiot, Vesta," I snap. "I think I know that I'm never going to get any closer to her than I am right now: living in this house, breathing her air, and going on a picnic with her and her baby—_Jack's_ baby. Just let me have what I've got, alright? God, just let me have _that_ much!"

The words have tumbled out without thinking, and now I find myself dying to pull them back into my mouth. But like fire, they spread, burning both my sister and I with fiery unbridled emotion. Her expression hardens, and she steps away, almost as if she's afraid to come any nearer. "Can you hear yourself, Marlin?" she whispers. "Can't you see you're just setting yourself up for this all over again? _God_, Marlin, let it go. You're hurting yourself more than anyone."

"Then at least give me that right."

People always talk about those awkward silences, the kind where no matter what anyone says, it always comes out wrong. As Vesta gazes at me, speechless, I think this is something like that—a silence only broken by Celia's laughter upstairs. We stare at each other, two stubborn fools, until she comes down the stairs with that baby in her arms and breathlessly asks when we're leaving.

"Well, Marlin," Vesta says finally, "she's waiting for you, ain't she?"

I pretend not to notice the clouded look in those eyes, and instead concentrate on the sunny skies ahead, ignoring the premonition of a storm about to brew.

* * *

"Where have you been?"

She'd been out late, later than she'd ever been. Dirt caked her dress and apron, and a curtain of brown hair hid her face from view. Standing in the doorway, she seemed more like a ghost than a girl, shaking as if she might break at any moment.

"I…I need to go to bed," Celia whispered. Her voice cracked midsentence, and she turned away, shuddering. "I need to go."

My eyes narrowed; Jack had been with her, hadn't he? "_I swear to God, if that bastard laid one hand on her—!" _But no, no, there were no marks, not that I could see. Yet Celia could have been an empty husk, staring at me with those soulless eyes. Something had changed. Something had been broken.

"Are—are you alright, Celia?" I asked, and no sooner had I spoken she turned her head up to gaze at me. The hair obscuring her face from view fell back, revealing her pale, tear-streaked face for the first time, red and blotchy.

I wanted to crush her in my arms, seeing her so fragile, so vulnerable. I wanted to kill whoever caused those tears, slap him until he hurt twice as much as poor Celia did. My perfect angel could do no wrong, not in my eyes. It had all been that bastard's fault, that Jack's, and I hissed, "What did he do to you? What the _hell_ did that son of a bitch do to you, Celia?"

She held her eyes on my own for a single, torturous moment, and suddenly I realized she wasn't searching me for comfort, but pitying me, another tear slipping down her cheek. "Oh, Marlin," her voice rasped, and she shook her head, sobbing. "He didn't do anything. He didn't do anything, and it's all my fault."

I wanted to hold her in my arms, but I stood frozen, watching the emotion rack her body. He had to have done something; the girl I knew wasn't this frightened child, this crushed soul. "Whatever it is, it's not your fault, Celia," I insisted, so sure of myself and of my heart. "Listen…don't protect him, Celia. If he's hurt you—"

"He hasn't hurt me, Marlin," Celia murmured. "I'm…I'm the one who's hurt you." She wrapped her arms around herself, and her voice became so small I could barely hear her. "I can't marry you, Marlin. I—I'm sorry."

And with those words, my world came crashing down, drowned in the piteous tears of the one girl I've ever loved and lost.

* * *

"What's your favorite season?"

Celia is sitting on the blanket, her silky brown hair blowing behind her in the clutches of the wind as she cuddles Cassandra close. It's a simple question, but it's caught me off-guard, and I reply, "Do I _need_ to have a favorite season?"

"Well. No." She shrugs. "But most people have one, don't they? Mine is Spring." Her eyes trail the grove of trees nearby, overrun with sakura blossoms. They dance in the breeze, bright pink petals against the cold blue of the sky. It's beautiful, in a weird way. Harsh color softened by nature's splendor. "So I was just wondering what yours was."

"Why Spring?" I ask her instead, sidestepping the question.

She turns to me slightly, cheeks flushed. "Hm? Oh, I guess because it's the season of life. Everything's growing, everything's beautiful and new." Another shrug. "It sounds awfully silly when you say it like that, though, doesn't it?"

"Nah, I don't think so." Spring suits her: young, lovely, innocent. Deceiving. "For me, I guess…I guess I like autumn."

Celia cocks her head at me. "Autumn?"

"Well, yeah," I say. "We get a good harvest in fall, and the weather's nice."

Somehow, my answer has disappointed her; she turns to Cassie and pulls her into her arms, waking her slightly. "Those are good reasons. I guess I was just—um, are there any sandwiches left?"

It takes me a moment to register what she's said (sandwiches?) before I dig into the basket and pull out a slightly smushed, but edible, ham-and-cheese sandwich. She beams at me and takes a bite after muttering "thanks" while I wait, arms crossed.

"Well?"

"Um, well what?"

"What were you going to say?" I insist. "About fall."

Celia smiles a bit in embarrassment. "Oh, that. Um, I don't know, I just thought you would say something about how wonderful everything is in autumn. The colorful leaves, the delicious food, the smell of the breezes—it's a great season."

"So why isn't it your favorite?"

Cassie's woken up and she's started whining; it's too cold, and she wants the warmth of her crib and the blankets there. Celia soothes her with calm, quiet words, and then turns to me, her expression distant. "Because everything starts to die in Fall…and Spring is a rebirth." A smile. "With Spring, you can leave Winter behind."

She picks up an apple and offers it to me, and without thinking I take it, though all I want to do is prod her further. How many Springs does it really take to forget one Winter? How long must a life lead before a death can fade behind it?

How often can someone fall in love with the same girl, knowing each and every time she'll never be yours?

"My turn to ask you something," I decide, taking a bite. The apple is sweet—sickeningly so. "Why is it that, for the past hour, you've been pelting me with questions for no reason at all? My pet peeve, favorite food, hometown, and now my favorite season? What is this, an interrogation?"

I don't know why, but Celia's blushing now, and she stalls for time as she rocks Cassie in her arms. Brushing back a strand of hair from her face, she stammers, "W-well, I mean, I've just known you for so long…but I don't know anything about you. Not really. And I just want to learn."

She shoves her sandwich into her mouth, avoiding my sight as I stare at her, open-mouthed.

Me. Why the hell is Celia, the girl who was content to let me slip out of her life like a shoe that no longer fit, suddenly caring about me? Why is she paying any attention to me at all, after mourning for only one season—hell, not even. Everything's too perfect. Too easy.

_But just don't—don't expect too much, alright?_

Things that are too good to be true usually are. And you'd think by now, Celia and I both would have learned that.

I guess, sometimes, it's easier to believe in lies than to learn there's nothing to believe in at all.


	12. Chapter 12: Celia: Happiness

**Note: **So I said this chapter would be easier…ha! Man, was I wrong. Took a few rewrites for me to get it straight, it did. And now I get to explore a darker side of Celia's motives—something I hope you readers find troubling. Gah. I almost forgot to say happy Fourth of July, to all my fellow Americans. Because staying up all night because of your neighbors' noisy fireworks is patriotic indeed! XD

_Chapter Twelve:_

_Celia_

When my mother first told me I was to come to Forget-Me-Not, I didn't understand why. I had felt rejected, at first; I had become too much of a burden to her, and it was time for her to push me aside. No one had to tell me this; I could tell in her wearied expression, with every tired sigh she released. I, too, could speak the language of sorrow. But the day I left, she didn't say any of that. No, the day she led me to the train station…she was crying.

"You'll be happy now," she'd assured me, pulling me into her arms. "They can give you what I can't. You'll be happy, so happy, and that's all a mother can wish for her child. Happiness."

The future had been unwritten then; I had pages and pages of blank paper ready to spill my life upon. Happiness, my life would read. Joy. Contentment.

My mother fought to save me from following in her footsteps, struggling and struggling day by day to survive. But I've let her down, haven't I? History repeats itself. I wasn't strong enough to escape it.

"Celia?"

I suppose I never could be.

The bar is empty this evening; it's only a few hours till opening, and Muffy greets me with a puzzled expression she's barely managed to hide from view. Why am I here, she wants to ask, but instead, "How's Cassie doing?" is what comes from her lips.

"She's healthy. Fine," I reply, seating myself at the counter. It's polished, and I stare at my expression, lips drawn into a frown and cold eyes staring back at me. "It's…it's just going to be hard raising her, Muffy. Like you said."

"Wow, someone's listening to me? That's a first."

I fidget in my seat as she glides from shelf to shelf, red dress swaying behind her as she grabs glasses and lines them up at the ready. "It wasn't untrue, you know," I continue, and she pauses, glass in hand. "What you said to me that night."

"_I'm not trying to be cruel, Celia. But, girl, you've _got_ to move on. Wouldn't Jack want you to be happy? To find someone else? To get his child a father?"_

Everything I'd been too selfish to understand. All of it.

"You mean about…moving on and all that?" She slinks down in front of me, chin rested on her hands as she cocks her head at me, confused. Muffy shakes her head and lets out a small laugh. "Oh, Celia, I wish you'd forget about it. I wasn't thinking about you; I had no right to tell you to—"

"Yes, you did." I offer a weak smile. "This isn't really about me, though, is it? I—I'd always thought it was, before now. Before Cassie."

I could say those things back then. I could lock myself off from the world; I could swear that I had nothing to live for anymore but him and his memory. I hadn't gazed into that innocent child's eyes, imploring me for safety and warmth. No one relied on me then. I could talk about 'me' all I liked.

"You're right, Muffy. You've always been right." I stand up, and Muffy is trying to speak, trying to comprehend exactly what I'm saying. Her green eyes ask me thousands of questions: what am I saying? What am I trying to prove? What do I think I'm _doing_?

I wonder if people asked my mother these same things, the day she announced the betrothal of her infant daughter. I wonder if anyone else understood. I wonder if she would understand what I'm doing now.

"Celia—"

"It's so obvious, isn't it?" I whisper. Her pale arms wrap about me, crushing me against her in an effort to quiet my fears. "I can't be a mother. Not alone. Cassie deserves so much more…than just me. She deserves Jack: a father, a _real_ parent. Not another child to raise her."

"No, honey, no. Don't be silly. You're trying your best; you know that."

I pull away, and the lights above me are dimming; it's almost time for the bar to open, and music is starting to play in the emptiness of the room. "But my best isn't _the_ best," I remind her. "And…if I can move on—for Cassie's sake—I can give her what she needs. A _father_. After all…doesn't every mother want her child to be happy? More than anything in the world?"

And if my happiness is the cost, well, haven't I already lost that? Jack's gone. There's nothing more for me to lose.

* * *

I had never wanted something so desperately in my life. Curled into the corner of my room, I shut my eyes and fought to ignore the tumultuous shouts from below—all my doing. All my fault.

"How can she do this? All these years living here, and she just—just _uses_ us for room and board, then runs off with our competition! After all we've been through, how can she do this? How?"

"You don't mean to suggest forcing the girl to marry you against her will?"

"I—! No, I—I don't know, Vesta. It's not like that. I mean…I'd never…"

I covered my face, his softening voice striking me with the cruelty of a thousand screams. _This is selfish_, a voice within me whispers. _You knew why you came here. You are an engaged woman. You had no right—_

No, no, that couldn't be true. I had every right, didn't I? I gazed out the window, the world blotted out by night. Yes, I deserved to fall in love. I deserved to find someone like Jack, to follow my heart and—for once in my life!—do something that made me, Celia, happy.

_Traitor. That's what you are._

Every sound below me had died, and I pressed my cheek to the floorboards, listening desperately through the cracks. A tiny noise penetrated the oak, and I can still hear it now: a muffled sob, a scattered curse. The breaking of furniture.

This was the price of my happiness. This was the cost attached to my deepest wish.

The door opened.

"Celia?" Vesta smiled at me, but I hadn't the energy to return it. "I reckon you'd better go. Jack should know he's going to have to make room for a bride, right?"

I couldn't speak. I could only hug her, and thank her for finally letting me go.

How could I apologize?

* * *

"Marlin?"

He puts a finger to his lips, pointing to the sleeping girl in his arms. She's so at ease, my baby daughter; lying across him without a care in the world. I smile, and as I pull her towards me, see he's smiling as well in way he'd never dared to in years.

"She conked out about an hour ago," he whispers, and his breath tickles my ear. Shivering, I motion for him to follow me as I place her in her crib, letting her angelic form be hidden by blankets and her head cushioned by a tiny pillow. _She's my little girl, _I want to exclaim._ My angel._

"Thank you for watching her, Marlin," I say instead, door closed shut behind us. "I…I appreciate all you've done for her, really. It's more than I deserve."

He shrugs, and says merely, "It's fine. Cassie's a good kid, Celia. Even _if_ her cries can wake the dead."

I laugh, the word dead ringing in my ears. Dead, dead, dead. "She likes you, you know. Sometimes I feel like I'm not the one raising her; she cries for you, from time to time."

"Me?"

"It's always a different kind of cry," I explain, leaning against the wall. "I never hear it until you leave; it starts out quiet, then gets louder and louder, more shrill as she slowly realizes you've left. Sometimes it's almost like—"

—he's become her father.

I gaze up at him, this strong man whose hands can cradle my daughter with all the care in the world, and Goddess, do I envy him. I want to be a pillar of unwavering strength; someone others can find comfort in, instead of always being the one needing a shoulder to cry on. I—I hate being so…_helpless_. Marlin's never needed anyone but himself. Marlin's never been someone so ridiculously dependent on someone else that the simplest word—dead—can haunt him like a curse. He doesn't crumble the way I do. Maybe…I've always envied him for that.

Maybe that's why I've chosen him.

"Did you see what I've made for dinner?" I ask, leaving the sentence unfinished. My eyes gaze at the cracks in the plaster, avoiding the clouded expression on his features. "Your favorite."

"Curry, yeah, I noticed." Marlin scratches his head, fingers running through his thick black curls as he narrows his eyes. "Any reason you made it tonight? It's not my birthday, you know. What I want doesn't matter."

"Well, today it does," I decide. I whisk the plates from the shelves and set the table, his eyes still locked upon me from behind. I pretend he's someone else, someone whom I owe nothing to, and can wheedle and cajole as I please. "I just figured you deserved a special meal. For helping me and Cassandra out, I mean."

"Ah." Marlin nods, scratching the nape of his neck in thought. I'm stabbed by guilt as his cheeks color at that, and shut my eyes, blocking this pain from my mind with useless facts: carrots grow in winter, cows only milk after pregnancy, Fabia means _The Bran Grower_. I just can't allow myself to concentrate on _him_, and what that smile means. "So do you need any help?"

The silverware falls from my shaking hands to the floor, and at the clunking sound of wood against metal, I gasp in surprise. "Oh, dear—!" His hand alights upon my own as I lift them up, and I shove him away without thinking, his touch cold and clammy upon my own. "I—I've got it. Everything's fine," I assure him. His icy blue eyes are transfixed upon me, and I wish he could read my mind, see through my little charade.

"You know, it never ceases to amaze me how different I feel about food now that you're cooking here," Marlin quips as he—despite my protest—begins getting the drinks ready. The cups don't match; the yellow one is even chipped on the edges, and the other two are ridiculously disproportionate in height. Vesta had told me once that they were all from separate priceless sets her family had once owned (and consequently broke) over the years. I'd started to apologize for her loss, when she'd started laughing, saying how silly the whole thing had been. A cup was a cup. Simple as that.

Is everything else that simple? Could it be?

"Well, Vesta just…doesn't have the right nature to be a cook," I explain. The napkins are nearby, and folding them into neat halves, I slip them under each fork like a blanket. Cocking my head at the tabletop and finding myself satisfied, I continue, "It requires precision, full dependency on the recipe, but she's too much of a leader for that. She's incredibly patient, though, and very…sturdy."

"Sturdy?"

"Well, she's always prepared for anything. She adapts easily."

"Huh." With a twist of the faucet, water pours into the cups, the sound of water against china causing me to shiver despite myself. He turns the knob once again, then joins me at the table, his face expressionless as he sets the drinks down between us. "I dunno, sometimes I think she's just a stubborn old maid." I flinch, until I see he's grinning playfully, and let my tensed muscles relax.

"Must be wonderful to have an older sister," I comment.

"Eh, well." Marlin shrugs. "It's got its ups and downs. When we were little, there were times I wished I could beat her to a pulp." He chuckles to himself. "There are times I still do. She can be so damn nosy, you know?"

Now it's my turn to laugh, and he smiles as if my joy is infectious. "I'm the oldest girl in my family," I admit, giggling. "So I guess _I_ must have been the nosy one to my little brothers and sisters." Then the laughter slowly fades, like a dying record, and I close my lips tight. I suppose I've never been good at hiding my emotions; Marlin's features scrunch up in worry, and he leans towards me, fighting to find the right thing to say.

"Did I say something…?"

"Oh, Marlin, you didn't do anything," I assure him, heaving a sigh. I should never have brought them up; Goddess, I haven't thought of them in ages. Yet the memories fly back one by one, brightening the shadowed edges of my memory until I can see a tiny house filled with laughter illuminated in the recesses of my mind. "Let's talk about something else."

Marlin gives me a long, hard look, and a silence falls between us before he breaks it: "If it helps, I don't like talking about my family much, either. Other than Vesta, I don't have a soul in the world who really gives a crap about me."

"It's not that, though," I insist, shaking my head. "I mean, my family always…cared about me. We always stood by each other, especially in the tough times, and…" I pause. "I actually haven't spoken to any of them since I left. I don't think…I don't think any of them even know that I got _married_. Or that I have a baby. Or that Jack…"

Suddenly indignant fury is welling within me: why couldn't just one of them show up for my wedding, for my husband's funeral, for my baby's birth? Offer me a place to stay when I had nowhere but that haunted farm to sleep? Out of all of them, how is it that no one could lend a hand? Of course: they didn't know. Yet strangely, I'm filled with anger, regret, _horror_ that they'd forget about me in my time of need.

_But you've forgotten them, haven't you?_

I slump over in my chair, and I laugh hollowly to myself. What is this feeling—this sadness? My throat has tightened, but I don't want to cry; this is such a _different_ emotion, one leaving a strange taste in my mouth that I can't bite back.

"Family…is kind of relative, you know?" My skin prickles in alarm as he places his arm round my shoulders, but I let him hold me close anyhow, shutting my eyes tight. "I mean, yeah, it's nice to have blood relations who care about you, but there's all kinds of families, right?" I recognize his voice—it's the one he uses on my little Cassandra—and I let it comfort me, brushing away all my anger and resentment. "Vesta pretty much sees you as one of our family, and it'd be kind of weird for me to imagine living without you again."

_Living without me_. I cringe at the unexpected blow—one he doesn't even realize he's dealt. How could he know my true intentions? How could he know the reason I'm suddenly fighting to enter his life, and cooking his favorite meal for no reason at all?

Fear. Responsibility. Necessity. Those are my reasons. Not love.

"…I like this family," I murmur softly, and it strikes me how childish I sound, how scared. I want someone's arms around me, protecting me, but that's all I want, and what conscience I have left is slowly sinking under this selfish desire to find someone to be my shield. "Cassie likes this family, too. She likes you, and Vesta, and it's almost like we belong here."

I nestle my head into the crook of his shoulder and sigh, taking in his scent and being reminded of one not too different. This smell, too, speaks of the earth and sky and spring blossoms. He, too, sweats under the labor of the sun, and he, too, has been foolish enough to let me into his arms. My actions have startled him, and Marlin simply stares at me in disbelief, every feature on his face questioning each move I've made. I let my eyes meet his, tired and pleading.

_Please don't hate me._

"I…I want to spend more time with you and Cassie, Marlin," I tell him, each lie lighting up his face like nothing else can. "I want…to fix things between us. I want to forget what happened back then. I _need_ to forget. I need you."

_Don't judge me. Don't hate me for this—I have no choice._

"I'm just so tired, Marlin," I whisper, and my voice cracks under the strain of all my sins and fears. "I'm so tired of being alone and afraid."

I don't love him. I _need_ him. I need a father, someone stronger than I am, to help Cassie grow up into the beautiful young woman I know she can be. I need someone to take care of us, because I can barely take care of myself. I can't do this alone.

He would've married me out of duty, once. Isn't this, too, a duty?

_Forgive me._

"I'm so tired, Marlin. So tired."

I want it all to end, even if I have to crush it under the weight of one more lie.


	13. Chapter 13: Marlin: Wonder

**Note: **Being in a different setting can actually make it a lot easier to write. I can hear the waves crashing on the beach and the rain falling on the roof, and I'd be lying if I said I got this inspired writing at the cramped desk in my room. On the downside, the Internet is fickle here. I might not be able to reply to your reviews…not that I've been doing a good job about that. Um, my bad. But thanks for the feedback! It's much loved. :)

_Chapter Thirteen:_

_Marlin_

I wonder if this is what life would be like if Jack had never been born.

Long moonlit walks across the beach. Small smiles and pointless secrets shared. A cheerful greeting every time I enter the room. Celia could be doing the most ordinary thing, but as soon as we'd lock eyes, she'd give me a glance so intimate, I'd feel as if it wasn't me she was staring at, but my very soul. I wondered if she could see all the secrets that lurked there, why it was that she wasn't looking away.

The thing about it is that it doesn't seem real. It still seems too good to be true, that this angel could suddenly throw herself into my arms so readily, so trusting. "I need you," she keeps telling me, and some days, I trick myself into thinking that "need" and "love" are the same thing.

I love her. I need her. There can't be too much of a difference, can there?

"Have you ever wanted to do anything besides…this?" Celia asks, the final word tacked on awkwardly. She crosses her legs beneath her, and the royal blue of the ocean behind her heightens the blush in her cheeks. "Is there any place you'd rather be?"

"Huh. You mean, do I wish I didn't have to live with Vesta and work with plants all my life?" I shrug. "I guess. I mean, no one really plans on living with their big sister, right?" I draw a circle in the sand with my finger, letting it catch on the open cup of a shell. "I don't know. I worked in the city for a bit right out of college. Got a two-year degree; couldn't really stand learning much longer. I did some pretty meaningless work, got myself sick, and wound up here."

She squints at me. "But…did you want any of that?"

Did I? I lean back against the beach, sunlight blinding me, and figure that I'd never given it much thought to begin with. A famous actor, a rock star—hell, a lawyer—were all dreams that had seemed stupid and pointless, things I knew I could never achieve. It's easier not to dream at all, than to climb for something always out of reach.

"I wanted things to stop changing," I concede at last. "I wanted everything to stop being decided for me."

"And has it?"

I stare at her, and I could swear she hasn't aged a day even though I've seen her body swell with child, writhe in agony of birth, and glide about with weariness instead of youth. Somehow, her innocence strikes me as misleading, and something tugs at me, splitting my joy with skepticism. I answer her question with another: "Since when does life ever go the way we want it to?"

Since when, I want to know, did mine?

* * *

"Ah, you're back."

That's a good way of putting it, I guess; I haven't haunted the Blue Bar often enough lately, and to be honest, I haven't had to. With Celia suddenly hanging on my every word and action, there's no reason to mope and moan over a glass or two of Stone Oil. Things have changed a bit, strangely enough; I'm here to get away, like before, but this time from the serendipity in my life and not from the sorrow.

Muffy's sizing me up with those big green eyes, and as she whips me up my favorite without me asking, slides it my way. "So why are you here then, Tall Brooding and Handsome? You're the only whiner I haven't seen lately."

"I've been busy," I drawl, my hand tightening around the glass. It imprints on the cold icy exterior, sweating away the chill of the mist. "Celia and her baby and all. You were there. You know."

"That's right; you're a housewife now. Silly me, I forgot. But I can't blame you for choosing the thrill of diaper-changing over the high of a round of drinks." Her cherry-red lips curve into a sassy grin, and she quips, "Wait, let me guess: the dirty diapers pushed you to it. You're drinking away the stench of baby spit and one too many little mistakes."

"Ha. Funny." I take slow sips, for some reason in no hurry to let the alcohol corrupt my system. I've been thinking too much; I should want this escape; I shouldn't be drawing it out. I glance Muffy's way, and it strikes me that the Muffy I see following Celia around never quite resembles my confessor at the Blue Bar. She can mold into any situation, channel her optimism into any role: best friend, barmaid, gossip.

It occurs to me she could have been one hell of an actress.

"Basically, the tables have turned," I mutter, hoping she won't hear me as I muffle my words with drink. But she picks it up anyway; ears of a cat, this girl.

"On you or for you?"

"For me," I reply, then add, "…I think." She raises an eyebrow—one eerily symmetrical to the other—and lets a low hum free from her throat as she listens. "See, this is—I don't know how to say it. Celia's not worrying anymore. About him. About the past. She's looking at me, now, and it's like she never saw him to begin with."

I'm not sure why, but I think her smile has faded somewhat. "Looks can be deceiving," she hedges, and for the first time during our conversation, Muffy looks away at the other customers and asks if anyone needs a refill.

They don't.

"Maybe things just worked out in her," I shrug. "I dunno, it's just too…too easy." Like the kind of dream you try not to wake up from, because it's something only found in sleep. "Do you think maybe she's just gotten stronger? About the death, I mean. That could be it."

Neither of us are really convinced by that; Muffy gives me a look so incredulous I'm beginning to see her more as a smirking teacher than an actress. "_How stupid are you, anyway? Don't you know two-plus-two equals four?"_

Celia plus Jack equals happiness. Celia minus Jack equals sorrow. Celia minus Jack plus Marlin equals x. What is x supposed to be, anyway? Joy, sorrow? Neither? On who have the tables turned exactly?

Muffy knows. God, I'd swear she knows, just by the way she's averting those mascara-shrouded eyes from me and asking Kassey in a high voice whether or not he needs another drink. "Muffy, what's going on here?" I demand, a growl creeping into my request. "What the hell is going on?"

She whips her head of blonde curls towards me, and—I swear to God—she's pitying me with those wide eyes. "Marlin, you love Celia, right?" Muffy whispers.

"Yeah." Idiot that I am. "Yeah, I do."

The barmaid leans across the counter, and cupping her hand beneath my cheek, asks, "But is that enough, Marlin? Is that _enough_?" To my disbelief, she's practically crying, but somehow she's managed to keep the tears to herself. "Marlin, just be careful. Don't need her more than she needs you, okay?"

It's an answer, yet I'd swear I haven't learned anything at all.

* * *

Vesta had called it a waste of money, but plant breeding had always peaked my interest. There's something strangely appealing about knowing exactly what something is destined to be, and then skewing it to become a creation no one else could have dreamed of. Tomatoes bred with carrots. Apples bred with oranges. Potatoes bred with whatever those concoctions were. There was no money in it, Vesta reminded me over and over; no one wanted to buy a fruit nobody recognized.

Still. When my sister wasn't looking, a small plot of land was taken aside for strange absurdities to grow: twisting and turning on their vines to create something the world never needed, but marveled at.

Carrotoma. I open the fridge to see the strange little crop smiling at me, a cross between a carrot and a tomato, and I think it's still fresh. Fresh enough for a midnight snack, anyway.

"So those ugly things are yours, then?"

I jump; Good God, why on earth is Celia up this late tonight? She's wearing nothing but a nightgown, and it seems odd that I don't recognize this one, when I've seen all her others. It's yellow, wispy as a daffodil's petals, and shorter than the last; somehow, she's grown taller. There's something _wrong_ with seeing her like this, in a gown Jack no doubt bought her, and I turn back to my carrotoma, saying simply, "Yeah."

"Vesta wouldn't touch one earlier," Celia beams, coming to my side. Her arm links in my own, and she continues, "She said it's a misfit plant, something that doesn't belong anywhere. I don't think I've ever seen one before."

"Carrotoma," I grunt. "A carrot-tomato bastard." She keeps staring at me expectantly, and with nothing more to say, I extend it towards her. "Want to try it?"

At the very least, it takes her arm away from my own. The very touch of her skin ignites me, clouds my senses with a potency stronger than any drug. The quiet crunch of the fruit in her mouth sounds in the quiet of the kitchen, and Celia wipes the juice from her mouth with her hand. "It's…unique."

"It's underappreciated."

With my guilty pleasure gone, I'm stuck with an empty fridge and a girl whose eyes possess more dark magic than any three of Macbeth's witches. She hands me the fruit's remains and lets her hand linger on my own, swallowed in my palm.

God, that nightgown of hers is way, way too short.

"Anything else I should know about you?" she teases. "Do you sneak out to cook when I'm not looking, or maybe jet-ski in your spare time?"

"I'm a guy with barely any secrets," I snort. Despite Celia's recent hobby of interrogating me to death, I find it hard to believe anyone doesn't know what I'm thinking when I'm thinking it. I'm open about my emotions. Open about everything. Bottle it up, and I can't function. It's a thousand times easier to scream, to vent, to drink away problems. Whoever said men can't show their feelings is an idiot. We can show them just fine. We just get called "temperamental bastards" when we do it.

"Any reason you're up in the ungodly hours of the night?" I ask instead. "Vesta's snoring didn't wake _you_ up."

"No, but Cassie did," she retorts, smiling. "I had to rock her back to sleep, and now I can't seem to sleep myself. I came down for a drink of water."

"I came down for carrotoma. Which is now gone."

She blushes at that, and pulls out two glasses in offering. "Well, how about water, then?"

My stomach's grumbling, and I'm actually dying to raid the fridge for leftovers of some sort since my stash is gone. Water won't cut it.

"Why the hell not."

I force myself not to look at Celia as she bends over the sink; it's not right for me to see her like this, dressed like that. There's something so foreign about it, something so…private. I'm not the man who'd share late night snacks with Celia like this, seen her in that gown; that had been Jack.

Jack. Good God. I'm taking the place of Jack.

"Here you go," she beams, and I am frozen, eyes locked on the glass before me. Jack. Jack. I'm taking the place of Jack.

"I need to go out," I mumble, and I push the drink aside, standing up awkwardly. Her face wrinkles in confusion, and I force myself to ignore the sweet sound of her protest as I stomp out the door, half-dressed. The moonlight cascades across my bare chest, and I continue moving forward, away from the house and the girl I used to know inside it.

_What's wrong with me?_

I keep walking—more like running—and the grass threads between my toes, dirt clinging to my heel. I follow the river, and by some sadistic twist of fate, I'm at Harvest Goddess Spring, surrounded by brightly lit flowers burning like candles around my rival's grave. There's no snow blotting his name out from view now, and I can see it plain as day: Jack Harvest, loving husband, devoted father.

"Some damn father you were," I spit, kicking dirt at the perfectly washed surface of the grave. "Some man you were, getting yourself killed right when your wife needed you most. Bet you it's your fault she's like this—it's your fault she's changed! Who the hell is she _now_, Jack? And where the hell is the Celia I used to know? Is she dead, like you?"

I kick at it once more, blaming a man just as powerless as myself, and I wonder why I'm so enraged. I wonder whyMuffy's words infuriate me, why Vesta's caution stings, why Celia's sudden and unexplained affection is absolutely killing me inside.

What do I want? I want Celia, but not this Celia. I want to take Jack's place, but I don't want to be Jack. I want things to stop changing, but since when does what I want matter?

I stand there for a few hours more, until some quiet footsteps come behind me, and my angel leads me home. She leans against me, speaking words of worry and anxiety as the scent of her hair overwhelms me and her voice cracks with concern. I think about the years I'd spent dreaming about moments like this, moments where she'd reveal her love for me with these simple actions by my side, and realize that for once, I truly want to be alone.


	14. Chapter 14: Celia: Poison

**Note: **Heylo. Early update. Blame my writing splurge.

And thank you to Ekoaleko for the 100th review. You cheater, you know I love you anyway. XD

Also: I worked around some kind of suggestive ish stuff this chapter? Haven't really done that before, it's tasteful though. So no one should freak out, I think.**  
**

_Chapter Fourteen:_

_Celia_

I hadn't meant to visit Jack tonight. The thought had crossed my mind once or twice, but it was a dangerous one, and I pushed it away with all my dark intentions and lies. Life occupied me; Cassie needed looking after, I'd asked Marlin if he wouldn't mind walking the shoreline with me, and I needed something to distract my thoughts. If you'd told me six weeks ago that I'd be avoiding Jack on our very first wedding anniversary, I think I would have laughed in your face. Not thinking about my husband would be like not breathing: impossible. Yet this new path I'd paved for myself left no room for self-pity, and like a bone, I had to form a clean break if I were to heal at all. Even on Jack and I's first wedding anniversary.

After all, how could I give myself to Marlin, if my soul belonged to Jack?

Subconsciously, I'd wrapped my body in a soft yellow nightgown earlier, one that barely reached the top of my thigh. Some days, when the pain of his death is still fresh and vivid, I've slept with it sprawled across my pillow, drinking in all the scents that remind me of him and his touch. Exactly a year ago, I'd worn it for the first time, as new and fresh as my trembling body had been.

"I've never done this before," I'd whispered, shaking. Jack's arms rested about my shoulder, his wedding band winking in the candlelight, and he smiled at me with a warmth that melted me inside. I stared down at my pale, sunless legs, and wondered why it was I'd always covered them with my gowns if I were only going to embarrass myself with them tonight. "I…I'm probably not going to do this right."

He cupped my chin with his hand—rough and calloused—and murmured, "There's nothing to worry about. How could anything be wrong, when together everything's so right?" Then he'd pressed his lips against my own, his tongue wet and slowly wrapping itself about mine. I could vaguely remember the feel of my zipper sliding down my back, and the strange foreign feeling of his hands as he pressed them against my bare skin. The clothes fell into a puddle of yellow about my hips, and as his hands roamed, all my fear gave way to an anxiety and desire that consumed me completely.

"Just promise me," I gasped, his mouth released from my own. "Promise me you'll be gentle."

He said nothing, but nodded, and my eyes strayed to his belt. Looking to him for guidance, I undid it cautiously, letting it fall into my hands like an offering. He remained still, waiting for my lead, and then I worked at the buttons of his shirt and his pants until finally there was nothing between us but the beat of our hearts. He leaned into me, and I gasped once before fully giving myself to this man as he assured me, "I promise you."

Nights like tonight, I ache for him, and can feel my body begging for him with just as much force as every fiber of my will and heart. I lay in my bed, awake, and my hands stroke the expanse of my body, hoping to awaken some memory of his touch. I long for the overflowing love that had created the girl lying in that crib, for the trust that had accepted and engulfed me with passion. I want to feel the sticky sweat of his body against me as I lay curled in his arms, but all I have is a memory, and it's one I need to dull day by day.

If Marlin hadn't run there, I never would have had to face my husband. If I didn't run behind him, I never would have had to see Jack's name written in stone, glaring at me. "_You forgot me_," his grave demands. "_You left me. You became someone I don't even know_."

"I have good reason. I need him, for Cassie's sake."

"_Did you only need me, then? Was that, too, a lie?"_

"Never. How could the love we shared merely have been acted? No one can lie that well."

"_I'd rather you didn't lie at all."_

"That's not your decision. You're not here to decide."

I shudder in my bed, wrapped amidst numerous sheets and blankets, yet still cold as can be. The taste of Marlin's carrotoma is still fresh on my tongue—bitter—and I roll it from one cheek to the other, blocking memories of Jack's kiss from mind with this strange taste. Goddess, I want to let myself miss him. I want to cry.

I shove my first into my mouth, blocking all sobs, and steel myself against the pain and concentrate on the future. On the positive end achieved by these means. Cassandra needs this. She needs Marlin.

_Does she, really? Or do you just need someone to shoulder half your fear?_

"Happy anniversary," I choke, my hands falling to my pillow as my body wins over, and I pretend it's Cassie sobbing, not I.

* * *

"I don't want to talk to you."

Muffy's walking past me, her expression set, and her purse swings from side to side like a pendulum. "Why, what is it?" I ask, and she turns her green eyes towards me, aglow with fury.

"I think you know damn well what it is, and honey, I never told you to do what you're doing now. I told you to move on, but I never told you to do this." Her heels turn once more ahead and I reach for her shoulder. She stiffens at my touch and continues moving forward, scoffing, "Celia, I never thought you'd be like this. I never, not in my wildest dreams, thought you'd become one of _them_."

Them. She spits the word from her mouth like venom, and I want to approach her, but find that I cannot. "I…I don't understand."

"You never did, you know that? Never." She shakes her head, blonde curls flying everywhere, and she tightens her hands into fists. "Do you have any idea," Muffy hisses, "what's it's like to be the victim? To be the one swallowing all that delicious poison, only to learn that's all it is: poison?"

Of course I do. I'm a widow; I'm a single mother; I'm a child. What else could I be right now, but a victim? Yet I'm frightened by my best friend's glare, and remain silent.

"So many men," she laughs bitterly, "think that's merciful. Using someone for their own needs, as long as their victim doesn't know she's being run by a puppeteer. It's trickery. I've _been_ the other woman, destroyed perfectly happy marriages, and I never knew. I was told I was loved, when all I was, Celia, was being used. I've been a rebound, a mistress, an accident, and by not knowing I was one, that's supposed to make the pain go away. The shame. The knowledge of being nothing but a battered second-best."

She eyes me steadily, and my knees buckle; suddenly Muffy seems so much older, so much stronger than I, and it's disconcerting. I've never felt so small under her gaze, and I murmur, "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"You're not sorry," she states. She's stopped moving, and the wind has started to tease the folds of her red dress about her. Red as blood, I realize with a start. Red as suffering itself. "The funny thing is, it hurts more this way. Not knowing." She closes her eyes and laughs once more. "What hurts is the moment when your pedestal crashes, and the person you saw as your sun and moon is revealed to be nothing more than a petty liar, a traitor."

A liar. A traitor.

A fish jumps in the stream behind me, and I jump as well, startled by this sound. Since when have I started shaking, when did I start to lock my breath in the base of my throat?

"This professor I once dated," Muffy says, oblivious to my change of mood, "once told me that Dante said the deepest circle of hell was saved for the traitors of the world. I always had this fantasy after that; that all my exes would find themselves together there and they'd realize what bastards they were for ever hurting me." A pause. "I don't like seeing you in that dream, Celia."

Encouraged by the softening tone of her voice, I draw nearer only to be pushed away. "Marlin doesn't deserve this crap, Celia. Neither do you. And Cassie, I know, deserves much better than that, too. Stop this. End it while you can," she pleads. "Just look at his face, and I—I don't see how you could go through with this. How can you look him in the eye, and just…?"

"I have no choice," I interrupt quietly, and her gaze hardens.

"There's always a choice," Muffy replies coldly, and she stalks off to the Blue Bar, the shattered remains of our friendship left in her wake.

* * *

"Well, missy, it's only a week till your birthday, am I right?"

Vesta smiles at us over the tabletop, and Marlin simply nods ambiguously, not daring to look up. He's become silent after last night, and nothing I can say can draw him out of his shell. "Um, y-yes, one more week," I agree, picking at my salad. "I'll be nineteen."

"I reckon we should celebrate somehow," the woman suggests, and I can feel my heart sinking inside me like a weight. Cassie blinks at me from her baby chair, and grins a toothless smile my way that I can't help but return. _Thank you_, I want to say. _Thank you, God, for leaving behind someone who can still make me smile._

Marlin swallows a large bite of tomato, then says between mouthfuls, "I think I'll be busy that day. Getting groceries."

"Groceries?" Vesta retorts, eyebrows raised. "Boy, since when have you ever looked at my lists?"

"Do you want me helping out or not?" he growls. He shoots a look my way, then turns back to his meal, and I am left frozen. It's not a look I'd received before; the kind that speaks of hurt, of love, or of pain. No, he'd stared at me like I was a specimen of sorts in a zoo, something strange and unrecognizable.

An animal.

"That's fine," I squeak, shakily lifting my glass of water to my lips. "We don't need to celebrate."

"Pfft. Celia, it ain't every day a girl turns nineteen! We'll find Muffy, and that girl would do backflips to get some activity in this slow little village—"

"No," I mumble. "No, let's just…not. Muffy's busy, anyway. I'm sure of it."

I excuse myself early, lifting Cassie into my arms and, as I stare into her innocent wide eyes, wish that I, too, had someone's arms protecting me.


	15. Chapter 15: Marlin: Games

**Note: **Ah, I'm sorry! So sorry! See, I had this chapter all done and perfect, and then my laptop ate it weeks ago! I kept having trouble redoing it, and then…um, here it is. My bad, guys.

_Chapter Fifteen:_

_Marlin_

Everyone has limits they put on themselves, limits they swear they'll never breach. There's just so much that we say we'll never do. Like move in with your sister, for example. Fall in love with a girl too young to be on your radar. One day avoid said girl for as many minutes of the day as you can.

Life's just strange like that. You don't know what the hell you'll do until you actually do it.

"Give me a sec, Griffin; I need to finish putting my last curler in."

Muffy's voice carries in through the creak in the door, and I don't respond. In fact, part of me wants to run while I can, instead of degrading myself like this. It would take only a minute, maybe two. Run down the attic steps, dash out the Blue Bar's entrance, and Muffy'd never know what I'm about to do.

Yet, I knock again. "It's not Griffin," I tell her, and I hear a stifled gasp and a flurry of movement. Something crashes, and I cringe, wondering what on earth could be going on in that tiny room.

"Um, one moment!" Muffy shouts. "One sec, okay?"

The lock unlatches, and a head full of drooping curls meets my eye, complete with a robe hastily thrown around her pale shoulders. Her green eyes survey me up and down, and she frowns, red lips puckering.

"What are you doing here?" Muffy demands.

I shuffle my feet and shrug, wondering what on earth has possessed me to do this. I turn towards her for a moment and wince at her scowl. God, this is so strange. It's one thing to whine to her while the bar is open, but…there's something intrusive about doing it now.

"I need to talk to you," I grunt. "I guess…I need you to do something."

I might as well have told her that Murrey is long-lost royalty or Romana is an undercover spy, because I've never seen Muffy's moon-white face this stunned. She slinks out of the doorway and leans against the wall, arms crossed across her chest. "A favor, huh?" she drawls. "Well. That's a first for you, isn't it?"

My hand tightens into a fist. "Shut up."

"Those who want favors should use their nice voice," Muffy quips, and she raises an eyebrow. "Marlin, I'm deathly curious about why you hauled your overworked self over here this morning to my room. Because, honey, no one likes to see these curlers in action if they can help it."

God, this is so pathetic. "It's no big deal," I say, and I might as well have said the opposite, since Muffy knows my thoughts better, sometimes, than I do myself. "Vesta is just throwing Celia this—you know—birthday party. Romana's hosting it or something, and I…I need a date." I narrow my eyes in on her. "That's where the favor comes in."

Her mouth is a perfect, lipstick rimmed O as she stares at me, dumbstruck. I bristle at that; what, I'm not the ugliest man in Forget-Me-Not, and I have decent hygiene, and I only explode with rage every _so_ often. She fiddles with a drooping curler and, to my utter astonishment, blushes.

"You…want me, Marlin?" Muffy whispers. Oh, God, no. That's not what I mean. Not Muffy.

Then I remember that's _exactly_ what I mean.

"It's not what you think, Muffy." I run my hand over my face, and I can feel all the wrinkles left by the merciless sun. My voice has lowered, no longer angry, as I continue to beg on all but my hands and knees. "I can't be alone with her, Muffy. I just can't stand it anymore. I'm so confused, I—I feel like I'm in some game of hers, one that I don't know the rules to. I'm…losing, I think." I laugh: a hollow sound. "I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to win."

All the color drains from Muffy's cheeks. "Ah. Celia." It's strange, isn't it, that this name once could make my heart leap? That now it lingers like a shadow overhead, looming with unspoken dread. "Listen, Marlin, I don't like being used. I refuse to let myself be considered as some sort of object that—"

"Please. God, Muffy. _Please_."

I feel like a child, begging his mother not to punish him out of something stupid, like motherly love. He's guilty as hell, but all he wants is for one forgiving word, one blessing.

You don't need to deserve it, sometimes. Sometimes you just…_need_, period.

"You know, I've never seen you beg before, Marlin," Muffy announces. "I don't like it, I think. It brings you down a bit." A soft hand presses against my cheek, and immediately I sense how different it is from Celia's, from my own. It smells of something more exotic than soap and seeds and baby powder; I'd be willing to bet it's some fancy European brand of perfume. This is a hand that hasn't handled a hoe, or a sickle, or even a baby. Yet there's something so motherly about it, so gentle, that I find myself trusting Muffy even before she speaks again.

"This isn't fair to you, you know," she murmurs. "You shouldn't have to ask me something like this, not because of her. I've given up being used, Marlin."

"I—!"

"But if it'll help protect you from whatever Celia's intentions are now, I suppose it's not being used, is it? You need some sort of leverage in her game, some rules of your own." Her smile is blinding. "You lucky little bastard, I just might say yes."

* * *

You want to know something? I've always, always, considered myself bad with kids. I haven't the patience for dealing with spitting up and throwing food and dirtying diapers. I can't make adults laugh, much less babies. I'm not forgiving enough to parent.

Yet with Cassandra, everything's different.

Her tiny arms reach for me from the floor with all the trust in the world. She blinks her eyes at me, and a smile splits across her face as she heralds me with a wordless welcome. "What, you miss me?" I ask, and I tickle her belly until she squeals with laughter. God, she's so _tiny_! I'm afraid if I hug her too hard, she'll break in half.

"I see you've gotten yourself home," Vesta calls from the back. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, my sister adds, "Since when did you hear it'd be alright to leave me here with both the child and the crops to handle? I ain't a miracle-worker, Marlin. I can't tackle your responsibilities and mine, too."

I stop horse-playing with the baby long enough to glance about. "What about Celia? She can work, too."

"Oh, Marlin, you leave that poor girl alone. I wouldn't dream of making that child do anything she didn't ask to do." Vesta waves me away with a quick "tsk tsk."

Poor girl. _Child_. I'm frozen on the ground, not even caring that Cassie is using my mullet for a game of tug-of-war. When was the last time, I want to know, that I've thought of Celia as a child? It feels as if it was only yesterday I had been pining after her with the combined pity and anger of an adult at a petulant girl, but this evening, oh, _child_ isn't the word coming to mind.

A child does not trick and deceive—_manipulate_—as she has. A child is something innocent: easily forgiven, easily forgotten. You can punish a child. Love a child. Can this bitterness, though, be harbored towards anything but a woman? Can I be this disappointed, or this regretful, towards any well-meaning little girl?

Cassie is a child. To my complete shock, however, Celia has finally grown up. And it's had nothing to do with her age, not as I'd always assumed as I waited for her eighteenth birthday with a fool's eagerness. Damn fool that I am, I never thought Celia could learn to be truly and deliberately cruel.

But we all learn, don't we?

"Where's Celia?" I ask despite myself. I stand, to Cassie's complete disappointment, and walk towards Vesta only to be greeted with a brief shrug.

"Last I saw, she was walkin' on to Romana's about the party. Kind old lady that she is, Romana's let her hold it at her mansion. I reckoned Celia deserved it, going through what she has."

It's incredible that she hasn't already drowned in the pity of the town already. How long does losing a husband let you get pampered and coddled, anyway? I'm disgusted, and a nagging voice in my head is telling me that Romana's been cheated by this girl-woman, just as everyone else has. Just as _I_ have.

"I'm going out."

"Out?"

I let the swinging of the door answer her, my sights already set on the path ahead.

* * *

The whole walk, I'm steeling myself against what I know will come: the smell of Celia's hair, the infectious sound of her laugh, the vulnerable exterior that hides her inner self perfectly from view. I want to scream at her, but I know that the emotion eating me up inside, for once, isn't anger.

I want to understand. I want to be able to forgive her, even after all this. I want an excuse to validate my love of her all these years. Maybe, even, an excuse to keep loving her now.

"Marlin?"

I'm at the gate to Romana's manor, and already someone's called my name. The short little heiress, Lumina, waves at me from below her balcony and scurries over, my angel in tow. She can't be more than three years younger than Celia, and yet the difference between them is so striking: Celia's gown is dirtied with labor, while Lumina's shirt and pants are neat and crisp and childish. Her hand is on Celia's, and beaming, Lumina skips up to me.

"Did you come to see Auntie Romana's preparations for Celia's party?" Lumina asks, eyes aglow.

"Um, no." My gaze flits towards Celia. "I came to talk to the birthday girl herself, actually."

Lumina's hand flies to her mouth and I get the strangest feeling it should be gloved. "Oh! Alone! Of course!" Her cheeks have become a rosy pink, and as she stammers apologies and runs off, I begin to realize exactly why she's embarrassed.

Ha. A romantic meeting between lovers is hardly what's on my mind right now.

"Is something wrong?" Celia inquires. I'd been bracing myself for this, but her voice slowly unravels my defenses so that I can only look at her, waiting. How can someone seeming so innocent, so perfect, be this cold and unfeeling?

I force myself to keep staring at her. "You tell me."

"Tell you what?" A playful smile tugs on her lips; oh, no, this isn't a game, Celia. My hands clench into fists, and it's all I can do to refrain from shaking her in fury.

"Why you've been acting so damn nice all the time. Why it's suddenly your business where I grew up, what my favorite meal is, what my freakin' hobbies are. What I want to know, Celia, is why now? Why—?"

"Why what?" She blinks at me and furrows her brow, clueless. "I was just curious."

"You've had four years to be curious, Celia. This is pretty damn convenient of you to be holding back until now."

Just _tell me_, dammit! Tell me you're using me. Tell me you've changed. Hell, just tell me _why_. You don't even have to apologize anymore. Just admit it, for the sake of my sanity.

Yet she dares to stare up at me with those moon eyes and murmur, "I don't understand, Marlin. What's going on?"

You tell me, Celia. You tell me, and maybe I'll leave you alone to your lies, to your stupid manipulations and deceptions. Damn it, I _want_ to love you.

Something pricks at my eyes and I turn away.

"I'm going to your party with Muffy," I state simply.

Something in her shatters; her voice is fading, pitch by pitch, as she tries to respond. "O-oh. I…I never knew you and Muffy were so close. She asked you?" Spring breezes play with the apron of her skirt, and she fights to hold it down and to keep face. I've stunned her; well, good. There's something gratifying about not being the one confused, for once. Liberating, even.

"I asked her," I correct. "I thought I should tell you. You and Muffy aren't on good terms, right?"

Honestly, the only reason I know this is because Vesta had been mentioning something about the two coming to blows or Muffy not coming anymore to the farm. Something like that. Anyway, Celia's ashen face tells me I've pretty much hit the nail on the head.

"N…not anymore, not really," Celia mumbles. She sucks in a deep breath, her fingers nervously playing with her hair. "I just…kind of…assumed we'd go together." She forces a smile. "Silly me." Half of me is moved by the sorrow in her eyes, shining with such candid emotion I want to press her close to me and apologize.

But I don't have anything to apologize for—no matter how desperately I want to be the one at fault.

"Well." I cross my arms and turn away, the sun already bleeding across the evening sky. "Why would I want to go with you now? We've moved on, haven't we? I thought you made that clear a year ago."

I, too, have grown up. Simply by glancing at this doll of a woman beside me, I can see where my words have drawn wet scars across her face. Her hand reaches up to catch them: easily wiped away but not so easily forgotten. I, too, have learned to be cruel.

"I'm sorry, Marlin," Celia insists, shaking her head. "You know that, don't you? I'm _sorry_!"

It's as I'm walking away, I realize I'm not even sure what she's apologizing for.


	16. Chapter 16: Celia: Rebirth

**Note: **Whoohoo! School's in session! Meaning my writing will get loads better; when I'm stuck for time, I tend to make better use of the minutes I'm given. So my new goal? Finish this by September! I can do it!! The beginning of this chapter is a weeee bit shaky, but I'm happy with how it ended up, so woot! Anyway, thank you to my fantabulous reviewers, and do enjoy.

_Chapter Sixteen:_

_Celia_

I am such a fool.

I never wanted to be a liar, or a fool, but I suppose it's what I've become lately. A coward, too. I have become that as well. It's why I have been avoiding Vesta's home like the plague, and been haunting Romana's manor every waking second of the day. Everything is so beautiful here, so perfect. My fingers reach out to touch lovely glass windows, sculpted for beauty as well as practicality. Vesta could never afford something so frivolous. Nor could I.

It's different, and maybe that's what I love most about this place: I've never needed to belong.

"Ah, Celia, Celia!" Each step Lumina takes sounds like a quick, eager staccato, sounding _tap tap tap_ across the floorboards. Her morning ritual of piano recital has ended, and only now does she notice me standing here, staring out the windowpane. "Are you here about the party again?"

I purse my lips for a moment as I watch the blossoms swirl and dance about on the breeze in a flurry of color. "I suppose." Some of these petals I recognize now: apple blossoms, orange blossoms. Jack had introduced them to me, on his farm. He'd swept my hair behind my ear to whisper in a voice that only I could hear: "_They say an apple blossom is a symbol of promise, and an orange blossom one for fruitfulness. Flowers have a language of their own, too, you know._" A smile. "_Maybe they're trying to tell us something."_

"My birthday's coming up, too, Celia," Lumina pipes up. "I'll be sixteen. A real lady." She holds her head high, waiting for my praise, but all I can do is stare at her dumbstruck. Could that truly be so? Could little Lumina already be sixteen—? No, no, time does not fly by that fast. I hope for Cassie's sake and mine that it moves far more slowly than that.

She swings up and down on the balls of her feet and closes her eyes; a smile lights up her face. "Sebastian says he'll bake me an even greater cake—yours will be lovely, Celia, but when I grow up, he's promised to add an extra layer of vanilla. And Auntie Romana has promised to invite all our relatives, so that they can see my coming-of-age." Lumina pauses to take in a deep breath. "Of course, I'll invite you, too, Celia. It'll be so fun!"

"That sounds lovely." I bow my head and avoid Lumina's gaze at all costs; her smile is far too similar to the one I used to wear and to the grin I know Cassie will shower me with years from now. I want to wrap my arms around her and cry, tell her to never lose that smile.

She continues in her prattle as I shut my eyes and try to reconcile all my conflicting thoughts and emotions: his stricken face, the fire in his eyes. He _knows_, I admit to myself with a terrified sigh. He knows.

"_Why you've been acting so damn nice all the time. Why it's suddenly your business where I grew up, what my favorite meal is, what my frickin' hobbies are. What I want to know, Celia, is why now?"_

When you stretch yourself too thin, everything you grab for falls short of your reach. You can only handle so much. I want to remember Jack. I want to give Cassie a father. I want to use Marlin short of truly loving him.

Even if…even if I knew he truly, truly loved me back.

"…and we could always reuse the decorations from your birthday, Celia, and if we add some flowers, they'll look good as new! We can dress up in fancy dresses and…oh my goodness, Celia, are you okay? Are—are you sick?"

When a mirror is shattered, you can glue it back together, but all the fragments will remain puzzle pieces: disjointed. Stare into it and it's not you anymore you see, but a monster of yourself. And that is what I see now as I look deep within myself: a selfish, manipulating, frightened monster.

Lumina's tiny hands try to soothe me, but I shield my face with my hands, a strange, agonized sound tearing from my throat. I _deserve_ this. I deserve this so terribly. All these years of smiling at him, laughing with him, declaring him to be my truest friend, Marlin has only become my pawn in a twisted, messed-up game of desperation.

It's _right_ that he should forget me. It's right that he should find someone more worthy of him. It's right that Muffy deserves to have the man that I've always taken for granted. How conceited, to believe he'd never let me go, that he'd never move on.

I'm not worth that kind of adoration. I never was.

* * *

"Now dearie, I want you to tell me what's really wrong here. You sound positively awful."

Romana has an almost regal presence; her chair is a throne, her head held high as if crowned with the weight of many nations. She rocks in her chair back and forth, the lamplight glittering off the handle of her proud purple umbrella: her scepter. I sit in a crumpled heap on the bed, kneeling before her in an almost religious state. In this house, I am inferior, meek.

"I just…I just don't want a party. I don't need one," I murmur. I knit my hands together, then pull them apart. "I'd rather not, Ms. Romana. I'm sorry you've gone through all this trouble for me, but I'm afraid I just can't go through with it."

"Hmph. Trouble, is that what you think it is?" The old woman barks out a laugh. "It's nothing. Ever since I heard of Jack's death, I've been positively anxious to do something for you, poor thing. Losing a husband isn't easy." The chair squeaks across the ground as she sighs. "Heaven knows it took its toll on me, with the children gone, too."

"C-children?" I repeat. My voice is soft, an echo.

"Lumina's mother and father." The air about us becomes hotter, humid, stifling. An alarm sounds in my mind—_this is none of your business, none, none at all_—but I say nothing to stop her as she closes her eyes and lets out another deep breath. "All three of them died, the very same day. Car accident. It's a story many people can share: rainy night, abandoned road, drunk driver. I don't pretend to be the only sufferer. I don't pretend my pain is unique."

How can she speak so candidly of their deaths, repeat this horror without falling apart at the seams? Such a feat seems too impossible, too dreamlike, to achieve. I can barely talk about Jack without stifling a sob. I certainly can't talk about his _death_ of my own free will.

I can't bear to watch her any longer, so I turn to the photos surrounding us: all of Lumina, all of what's living and breathing now. Where are those of her past, I find myself wondering, and suddenly I don't want to know. I don't want to see their faces and imagine a dead light in their eyes.

"How…how did you do it?" I whisper. "How did you move on?"

Romana laughs again, a raspy sound. "I thought you'd know the answer to that, Celia. What keeps you going, living, breathing?"

Cruel unfeeling fate. The unwritten rules of this world that force the survivor to ache more than the victim. Unfair chance.

"I don't know," I mumble, retreating deep within myself. I swallow back a new set of tears as my voice cracks. "I…I don't know."

Romana eyes me with something akin to the love of mother for her wayward child, and I can feel her wrinkled skin upon my own as she grabs my hand. It's stronger than my grip, despite her age, and I wonder why it is the old are always called brittle and useless, when the support of this woman can hold me so completely.

"Celia," Romana replies, voice hard, "I _swear_ to you, if my granddaughter had not survived this tragedy, I would not be the woman you see before you. I have seen many woman—scarred, unable to heal—who suffered such deaths in their lifetime. But they didn't have Lumina." She shakes her head and smiles weakly. "No, they didn't have Lumina. They didn't have a reason to keep living; they had no one to rely on them anymore, no one to love them. Oh, but I was one of the lucky ones. I taught Lumina to walk, to speak, to read, to play piano—and _that_ was how I moved on, Celia. I moved on by reminding myself I still had business in this world; that while I could do nothing for those lost, I could still help those still living. And when Lumina grows up, marries, and has my great-grandchildren, I shall not despair. I shall be _happy_, Celia, because I'll have done as much good with my life as I can."

The feeling in my hand is numb as she grasps it ever tighter, and her eyes bore into mine, a passion burning there that has never burned in my own two orbs. Her breath heaves, up and down, and the chair creaks, back and forth, as I am simply stunned by the courage laced in her frail voice.

"I," Romana begins again, "am an old woman. These old bones are rotting away day by day, and I don't pretend that I'll live forever, no matter what I tell Dr. Hardy. But when I die, I'll have died knowing what true love is, what it takes to give a child hope when you've had none, what it means to truly rise from the ashes and live on. And I've wanted to tell you this for so long, Celia. Because…I know where you've been, dear. I know how raw your emotions are now, how bitter death can taste. But I also know all the joy laid ahead of you, and I'd hate for you to miss a single bit of it."

And I wonder if, in the years to come, I'll be able to be like this woman before me, this kindred spirit with a weary laugh. I wonder if I'll be the one comforting another as they cry into my shoulder, if I'll be able to relay my own story without anger, fear, or sadness.

"I want to be strong, too," my voice cracks. "For Cassie."

I don't want to rely on Marlin for her happiness, or on lies, or my own misery. I, too, want to be able to stand proud like Romana, and look below me at all my obstacles and my achievements with a knowing smile. I want to be someone's refuge, a pillar of strength. I don't want to be the weak girl I have been. I want to _change_.

So I take baby steps, baptized by my tears as they spill, one by one, from my newly opened eyes.

* * *

I had told him it would be the coldest night of Winter. I told him, over the roar of the wind, "I'll have dinner ready soon! You should take a rest. It's terribly cold out."

At the time, Winter had been beautiful. The two of us, we'd walk hand in hand down the paths, every so often stopping to catch snowflakes on our tongues like children. They disappeared in our mouths all too quickly, and when that joy faded, we'd talk about the future, about the snowmen we'd build with our child and the little scarves and mittens we'd have to knit for her.

Jack always wore the same tried-and-true farmer's garb, adding an old scruffed-up coat for heat. I must have patched it up thousands of times, joking that he'd die of cold. "I swear, Jack, one more hole, and this wouldn't keep a bug warm!" I'd laughed. "Are you sure you don't want a new—?"

"Honey, think about the baby," Jack insisted, his hand straying to my swollen belly. "We need every cent for this nursery, and you know me. I can handle a little snow." Little Cassie, how he worked on your nursery. Day after day, for hours on end, I could see him sweating in the middle of Winter, the moisture frozen to his brow. He'd tease me as I waddled out with cocoa for him, so pregnant and full, saying that I looked like Mrs. Claus, and not his wife.

Then that night, he didn't listen.

The room was practically finished; Takakura has explained that much to me. But oh, you cared so much for perfection, you longed so terribly for this room to be flawless. I couldn't call you in, no matter what I said or how I pleaded. "One more nail," you'd grunt. "One more screw. Just one more floorboard."

He seemed so strong. I can remember, the first time we made love, feeling so fragile, wondering if he'd break me in two with those powerful farmer's arms. My husband had been invincible, untouchable. Nothing could crush him.

The crash was sickening.

I could say that it fell upon him, but apples fall from trees, petals fall from flowers, and this was a murderous strike. I remember screaming, startled awake in the dead of night at the crunch of bones and wood. I'm sure I was quite a sight, my coat thrown over my nightgown and boots—his, not mine—shoved onto my feet as I raced into the snow. _Dear Goddess_, I pleaded myself. _Dear Goddess, _why_ isn't Jack inside?_

I screamed his name until my throat was hoarse and raw. Oh, I could see the cause of my misery; the tree that had collapsed onto the nursery wall lay splintered on the ground. I had not the strength to move it. I could only see a single leg beneath its mighty beam, and that's how I learned my husband had died.

_Maybe he's still alive_, my heart cried. _Maybe he's breathing; he's strong, he can withstand this. _Takakura took the axe and began to chop away at the timber, and I crouched down in the snow to touch what parts of him I could see. His skin might as well have been ice to my touch; I rubbed my palms up and down his leg, eyes shut as the lop of the metal against wood repeatedly sounded in my ears.

_He's not dead, _my heart insisted. But, oh, I already knew. I could tell half of my soul had vanished.

His body was nothing like I remembered: all beaten, bloody, and blue. He was smiling as he lay in my arms; isn't that strange? He smiled, even though this tree had cracked into his skull and many of his bones lay broken. Half the nursery wall had broken right along with him, and I wondered, to myself, if perhaps he was smiling as he thought about the memories we'd have shared in that room with our child.

"How can you leave me?" I'd choked. I wanted to scream, _Don't leave me_, but somehow the words could never come out; I knew them to be empty. I closed my eyes and fought to remember when I'd last felt his heart beat, when we'd last kissed, if I'd said "I love you" before he passed from my hands.

And, strangely enough, it's his voice that floats into my mind, as I recall his final words to me: "I'll be with you soon, darling. I love you."

Once, I would have held that against him as a lie. But I see it now as a promise carried on the petals of an apple blossom: that, someday, I'll see him again. And when I see him, I'll be someone new. Someone incredible. Someone strong enough to wait until I can once again leap into his arms and remind him, "I love you, too."

* * *

I cannot explain to Vesta in enough words why I'm doing what I am. I fold the fabric into tiny squares and place my nightgown and dresses into the suitcase, the woman beside me helping to add Cassie's little clothes to the mix.

"I suppose I knew this day would come again," Vesta grunts. She gives me a half-smile, but I can tell she's miserable at the thought of putting away all of the baby's things and not waking up to my cooking and Cassie's laughter. "It's why you came here and all. I reckon I should be happy you're finally going back." She wipes her nose with her sleeve, and I can tell she's fighting back tears. I give her a quick, warm hug, and get squeezed to death in answer.

"Oh, Vesta, you know I'll miss you terribly!" I laugh. "I'll just be across the bridge, anyway, and Cassie wouldn't want me to keep her too far from her Aunt Vesta. She adores you."

Something about Vesta's tangle of orange hair amuses my daughter to no end, and she's always trying to reach for it and tug. Sometimes I wonder what poor Nami would have done if she'd stayed behind, if she'd swat away Cassie's hands like a fly.

"The little gal does love me, doesn't she?" the woman chuckles. "I know you'll visit, Celia, I know. I just…well, I don't see why you're not telling Marlin, is all."

"Marlin." I close the latches and sigh out his name like a heavy burden fallen from my shoulders. "I…think he'll understand." Saying good-bye would be far too awkward. I've already left him, haven't I? And he's not alone anymore. I should know better than to open old wounds. I know that now.

When the door opens, the first thing that registers in my mind is light: blinding, beautiful sunlight that paves the way to my home. Cassie sits in my arms with inquisitive eyes, unable to stare ahead as she reaches behind me, fighting to grab at her Aunt Vesta. But me, I am _tired_ of looking behind. A child in one arm and a suitcase in the other, I take measured steps forward, my breathing even with my heart as it pounds, beat by beat, against my chest. The house ahead is no more haunted than the one whose door is closing, and the memories no more powerful. Yet the woman arriving at this abandoned farm is not the same girl who left it in tears. She has changed.

"Hello, Takaura," I begin, my voice shy and unsure. He stands in the pathway, eyebrows raised as I hold my baby higher and the suitcase threatens to slip out of my fingers. I shuffle my feet and smile a half-grin. "I…I'm home."


	17. Chapter 17: Marlin: Blue Feather

**Note: **Wow, **one** more chapter to go after this! Where does the time fly, honestly? For a romance story, I get into a lot of self-discovery plotting, don't I? What a misleading genre this fic has been in… Anyway, I'm honored that so many people have bothered to read my story so far (you guys rock all kinds of awesomeness XD), and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!

_Chapter Seventeen:_

_Marlin_

"She's…gone?"

The nasty plate of food in front of me proves Vesta's statement: Celia would never have cooked anything that smells so rancid. I poke it with my fork—a botched attempt at curry, maybe?—and push it around so that it looks like I've taken a huge bite in the middle. "Actually gone. Without a word."

"Now, don't you get all sulky on me, Marlin," Vesta warns, jabbing a serving spoon my way. "This is good for the girl, and you know it."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Sighing, I lean back in my chair and the wood presses roughly against my neck. I'm supposed to feel angry, aren't I? I wait for the fury to overwhelm me, for my temper to overtake my soul, but instead everything feels hollow and cold within me. I've lost my appetite, but I can't decide if it's because the food is so disgusting, or that Celia's leaving has left a bad taste in my mouth. "You'd just think she'd say something, I guess. Like good-bye."

At least she had the decency to say that last time. Though, I suppose, that argument at Romana's might as well have been a parting of sorts for us. Yet I never wanted my last memory with her to leave her behind in tears; that had never, never been my intent. I'd wanted the truth—hell, I wanted to throttle it out of her if it came to it—but I never wanted to scare her away.

Though maybe, a part of me whispers, this separation is the best route we could have taken all along.

"How'd the doctor's appointment go?" Vesta asks, clearing her throat. "You gonna be alright?"

"The doctor's," I repeat. It all seems so stupid now, compared with this news of Celia's departure. Since when have I given decent thought to my body, anyway? "Uh, yeah, everything's good. Good."

"_It's incredible, Marlin. You're heart has finally begun the repairing process. It's possible that, if this keeps up, the disease won't be merely dormant, but you'll finally be immune. It's incredible, honestly. Incredible."_

"Mighty glad to hear it!" Vesta exclaims. I wince as she slaps me on the back—she's _always_ been stronger than me, dammit—and shrug. "I reckon we ought to celebrate! Drinks at the Blue Bar, then?"

You know, I would like to believe that Vesta is doing this out of true consideration for me, but frankly, I think it's all about Celia leaving. Vesta doesn't like to get drunk, and so getting dragged to the Blue Bar by her is always suspicious. After all, who celebrates recuperating from a disease by drinking a ton of legal poison?

"Nah, I'd rather not. " I shake my head and continue, "I've been using that as a crutch for a while, eh? I just want to think about this, you know, rest. You can go if you want. I just don't feel like coming."

"Ain't that a new story, coming from you!" She stands up and smiles, not even noticing that I haven't finished eating (not that I _would_ have, honestly) as she grabs my plates and places them in the sink. "So I'll be goin' it alone? Haven't done that in ages. It'll be a trip down memory lane, that's for certain. You sure you'll be fine by yourself?"

"Sometimes it's nice to be alone," I reply.

To my surprise, for once, I actually mean it.

* * *

You want to know something? When I think about it—really, really think about it—I haven't a clue why I fell for Celia. It's not that she's not worth loving, but of all the girls in Forget-Me-Not, why her? Why did I claim she was perfect, praise her every move and word with blind adoration?

Convenience of location, maybe. Naivety, maybe.

But how could I have thought that kind of love could last, if my affection was based on the illusion of perfection?

If you believe a person to be perfect, they will fail you. Even Celia—sweet, shy, hard-working Celia—is human. She has weak confidence, a dependent will, the same ability to lie and deceive as anyone else. If I had taken all that into account—that she's not an angel, but a _human being_—maybe things could've ended up differently. Maybe if I'd stopped being blind, I could've seen what lay in front of my eyes. I wouldn't have let myself be hurt so irreparably. It would have been easier for me to forgive.

You know, it's not so painful now. Losing her, I mean. What used to be a searing pain in my side has faded to a dull ache, and I can remember her without my fist tightening in rage or sadness constricting my throat.

It's a start, I know that much. It's…kind of nice. Freeing, almost.

"So, I guess we won't be going to that party, then."

Muffy smiles at me, and I feel somehow guilty for having to say this to her, even though we both now the party was canceled for reasons outside our control. She kicks at the dirt with the toe of her stiletto shoes and draws a circle in the ground absentmindedly.

"Nope," she agrees. "Darn. And here I'd been expecting to dance with you and count the amount of times you stepped on my feet. I'd been betting Griffin twenty-five steps per foot."

"How many did _he_ bet?"

"Fifty." Muffy giggles and covers her mouth with her hand. "Oh, well, at least things are going to get easier for you at home now. She's back at the farm, isn't she?"

I shrug. "Yeah."

"I'm sort of proud of her, actually." Muffy smoothes her red dress and bites her lip; it's glossy, glittering with some kind of shiny new lip gloss. "All this time, I was scared she was going to rely on you two from now on, and never have to find the will to move on in herself. I'm glad she's taking this into her own hands and coming back to the farm. It's good for her. Healthy." She crosses her arms and sighs. "It's just too bad she did this so late. I mean, look at what's happened to us now. Look at this mess."

_Yeah, just look_, I want to agree. _All those years, easily erased with a few bitter, infuriated words. Damn, I'm an idiot. _"It's…hard to take things back."

"The thing is, I can't even apologize," Muffy continues softly. "I meant every word of it, Marlin. Every word I threw at her was my honest opinion. I can't go apologize, and she isn't exactly going to come to me saying sorry. I just…wish this were easier. Like you could just walk up to someone and talk as if nothing in the world has changed at all."

"The weird thing is, the world _hasn't_ changed," I comment. "When you shout at someone, the sun doesn't decide to stop shining, and fire doesn't begin to blaze. When you're miserable, rain clouds don't immediately gather, and when you're happy, that doesn't mean everything will be rainbows and sunshine. We're the only thing that changes. The world—it doesn't give a crap." I pause as I catch her staring at me in thought, and I raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"Well." Muffy grins. "That's just kind of deep for someone like you. I should talk to you when you're sober more often."

"Shut up."

Muffy laughs again, and we smile at each other, both victims of the same self-imposed trap. The lilting melody of laughter dies on the wind, and finally, a small voice makes itself known instead: "Marlin? She didn't…um…say anything to you, did she?"

I turn to my blonde companion in surprise. "Not a word. I didn't know she was gone until I came home and saw she wasn't there."

"Oh." Her vivid green eyes center in on me, almost pitying. It's hard to meet their stare—I'm not sure how to respond to it—and she remarks, "That's not exactly fair to you."

"It's her call," I state. "It really shouldn't matter to me."

"No, but…you deserved some kind of good-bye. Closure, at least." She yawns—late night at the Blue Bar thanks to Vesta, no doubt—and stretches her pale white arms. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Celia was scared of confronting you."

"Scared?" I repeat. I lean against the wall and raise an eyebrow; Celia's _never_ been scared of me, not since the first year, anyway. If anything, she was one of the people most comfortable around me, other than Vesta. I might have pained her, yes, or angered her, sure, but there was no way I could have _frightened_ her. Was there?

"Mhm. See, Celia is someone people can easily read, but she's pretty bad at reading people herself. Take, for example, you." She rubs the back of her neck tenderly, loosening the tense muscles there as she sighs in relief. "I think if Celia knew how you'd react to this whole…oh, what should I call it…sudden attraction charade, she would never have gone through with it. Once she started it, though, it got harder and harder to stop. Celia's not good at letting go, either. You should know that."

_Something we have in common_, I think to myself. "So why do you think she _did_ let it all go? When we left each other, I…I didn't think anything had changed. She seemed so set in her ways, so damn stubborn, and—" And I guess that's when I began to question it all. Loving her. Seeing her as a porcelain doll who never once existed. It didn't make sense anymore; maybe it never had.

"Honestly, Marlin, I haven't a clue. Celia doesn't talk to me anymore." Muffy's hands fall to her sides, and she gives me a quick little grin before shrugging once again. "Maybe someone else could ask?"

"But who would do that?" I answer her, shaking my head. "There's no one she'd open up to with Jack gone—hell, she doesn't owe anyone her life story."

"I can think of one person she owes," Muffy whispers. And that's when I catch the imploring look in her eyes, and the silent request to do the one thing that she cannot.

I could see Celia again. I could force an explanation, demand an apology—I had every right—but I find myself telling Muffy, "I'll…think about it."

What else, I want to know, can I do?

* * *

It's the dead of night, and I can't sleep. Figures. Vesta didn't go to the bar tonight—thank God, I couldn't handle another hangover of hers—so I sneak out the door quietly enough so that only the moon can witness my departure. I tiptoe through the field until I reach a tiny abandoned patch and bring out my watering can to sprinkle its roots. My twisted creations—the carrotoma and its brethren—have all been abandoned lately with other thoughts on my mind, so I expect to find them deformed, yellow-leafed, and ignored.

To my shock, they're green as envy itself, and very, very much alive.

"What the hell…?" I exclaim to myself, circling them in wonder. Yes, the person doing this job knows all about plants; it's not amateur, not sloppy. Vesta doesn't know about my little guilty secret. She hasn't a clue what this little corner is for.

It's then that I see it, the tiny envelope tied to a plant's stem. For a moment I blame the night, say that it's tricking my eyes, but when I reach out, it's really there; I haven't been dreaming anything. It's a little battered, but not so much that the envelope's all that old. It seems recent, crisp, and when I open it wide, there is no mistaking its letter's writer. It's short and simple, but I keep staring at it long after finishing its message:

"_I know being sorry doesn't change a thing. But I never wanted to hurt you. And even though what I did was wrong and I can never take it back, I just wanted you to know that. I honestly hope you find someone who makes you happy, Marlin, because I know you've been hurt enough by a foolish girl like me as it is. You don't have to forgive me, I know. I'm not asking you to. I just…needed to tell you this before I leave. Somehow. _

_And I hope that's okay."_

My body slumps down into a heap on the dirt, and I close my eyes, the sound of an owl's cries echoing in my ears. I can almost hear her voice speaking this slowly, haltingly, as she twirls her hair nervously about her finger. What kills me is that I want to _hear_ it. I don't want to discover this in the middle of the night, all alone. I can't reply to a sheet of paper. I can't speak to ink. I want _her_.

So I don't fight my body when it straightens up and starts on a path away from Vesta's home; I don't argue when I stumble in the dark towards a farm I haven't set foot towards in ages.

This ends tonight. Now.

* * *

"Celia? Celia, are you awake?"

Damn me for arriving at my stupid epiphanies at one in the morning. I hesitate before knocking—wouldn't want to wake the baby—and creep towards the window instead, peering through as I tap it lightly. There's something taboo about walking through her open door, and so I can only hope and pray that Celia will show up some way, somehow. Minutes pass. The wind whips about my face, and I groan, letting my disappointment mingle with the breeze.

Of course she won't wake up. Of course not.

I walk away in a slump, hands in pockets, and start once more for the path. Just my luck, right? I finally want to set things right—finally, after all these years—and the woman is sleeping and I can't bring myself to wake up her baby. Next thing you know Takakura will waltz on over and kick my sorry ass out for stalking or something.

"…and I know you'd never have done what I have. But I'm going to overcome it, aren't I?"

My head snaps up. I know that voice. I _need_ that voice.

I race towards the sound, my breath catching in my throat as I turn up the path and a small, pale figure comes into view. Her hand lies upon the hard stone surface of the grave as her eyes are fixed upon it with an emotion I have never seen Celia possess. It is not innocence, this expression, nor is it anxiety, fear, or resignation. It's almost…almost…

"Ah! Marlin." Celia's whole body swerves towards me, and instead of the millions of responses I'm expecting, she just sort of manages a tiny smile and motions for me to come closer. "I…I didn't expect to see you here…and not this late at night, certainly not."

"To tell you the truth, I'm surprised I brought myself here, too," I admit. My legs move woodenly to where she's patting the ground, and I sit down awkwardly, criss-cross-applesauce like a little schoolboy. I pull out the wrinkled paper from my pocket and wave it in her face. "Got your note."

Celia blinks as she takes it from me. "I don't remember forcing you to see me…?"

"Leaving without saying good-bye might as well be forcing me to run after you," I retort. "What did you think I'd do, just sit there and sulk?"

She blushes at that. "Oh, I don't know. I…I didn't know how else to leave you, I suppose. It's not that easy, you know. Not when you're the one to blame for all sorts of confusion. I don't know what to say to what happened. I…I wish I did, though."

This Celia before me—I can't put my finger on what it is about her—but I feel comfortable talking with her, I really do. She's doing old Celia habits: tucking her hair behind her ear, listening with a glassy expression in her eyes that suggests she's daydreaming, folding her hands in her lap politely.

"You could have apologized," I suggest.

"No…I couldn't have just done that." She glances at me and ducks her head. "I owe you and Muffy so much more than a silly apology. All the 'sorry's in the world couldn't fix up the mess I've made."

"And who are you to decide that?" My voice is soft, but still sharp, and Celia is startled by my words. "Who are you to decide who can and who can't forgive you for what sins? Who says no one can reconcile when faced with certain wrongs? Celia, that's not your call."

Her mouth opens only to close as the wind steals the answer from her lips. It smells like apples and oranges, and the light shining from the flowers dances in the breeze, casting shadows in all directions. We watch in silence amidst all these woodland spirits before Celia speaks once again. "What would I have to do?"

"Just explain yourself." It's so simple. Tell the truth. Stop latching onto lies. Start living out of the past.

And believe me, I know how hard something that simple can be.

"Okay." Celia bites her lip and nods, a shock of brown hair escaping from her kerchief and falling over her face. "I can do that."

When you watch TV, the truth is always something huge, loud, and explosive. You watch these hot-shot attorneys screaming out the names of murderers, popular girls in high school soaps calling out the truth behind their break-ups and who-ran-off-with-who, and then there's those objections at weddings where someone confesses their love.

When Celia speaks, however, I have to strain my ears to listen.

"I'm…well…I've been looking at this all wrong, Marlin. All this time, when Jack died, I felt like I'd lost something. Me, I guess. A part of me." Celia shrugs and smiles. "That was my problem. I kept thinking that I needed something—_someone_—to replace that. That without the sense of completeness I'd had with Jack, I couldn't stand on my own two feet."

"I remember," I nod. "That day when you came back to Vesta's, it…it was like you weren't yourself."

"I don't think I _was_ myself," she agrees. "I felt so broken, so empty, so weak…and then I saw you, and how hard-working you were, how independent, how strong, and oh, Marlin, I realized I wanted someone like you in my life more than anything in the world. I wanted something more stable than myself to depend upon. I…I guess I was jealous of you. So when we started to reconnect, I took…advantage…of how you once felt about me. I forgot I could hurt someone like you, Marlin. I forgot I could hurt _me_."

I won't pretend to understand anything about death. If I could say anything, it'd be that I know how shocking that news can be that someone can still leave this world, that someone can stop breathing and time won't stop with them. Being a young orphan, though, doesn't really mean the same thing as being an eighteen-year-old widow. I can't force sympathy on her, because—like it or not—I can't understand what she's been through.

Just as, I'm forced to admit, she couldn't fully understand anything _I've_ been through.

Celia turns to me imploringly and the first words I find I can say are, "That's not true. Where the hell did you get the idea that I'm some sort of superman, Celia? Me, of all people, being someone others can rely upon? Don't make me laugh."

Since when have I thought of anyone but me and my selfish feelings? Tell me that. I don't give Murrey a buck when I pass by. I find excuses for myself even when I'm drunk, whining about myself to someone who probably would love to complain just as much as I do. I get jealous of a _dead man_, when I'm the one still breathing and living.

Give me one example. Prove I'm not the worthless scum I know I am. I _dare_ you.

"When I moved here," Celia murmurs slowly, "I relied on you more than my own mother, Marlin. You let me into your family, even when you didn't want to at first. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here right now."

If Celia were still acting, I would have slapped her for saying something like that. What the hell is wrong with me?—I'm _laughing_. I wipe away the tears from my eyes and continue in my guffaws; that had been the most selfish act of all, hadn't it? Using friendship as a tool for getting closer to her. How can she say something like that? How can she understand anything?

"Yeah, but Celia, come on. Didn't you get why I was always helping you out? Showing you around? I mean—" God, I need to stop laughing. "—I think it was painfully obvious to everyone _but_ you. I just wanted you to notice me. You know?"

Celia mulls over this for a moment. My laughter dies as I await her answer; she's far too solemn, too confused to shake her head and laugh this off. "If you wanted me to notice you," the farmgirl asks finally, "why didn't you just tell me how you felt?"

"T-tell you?" Words fail me; this is a universal truth, isn't it, that you never admit your feelings when you don't know if they'll be returned? You don't just spill out your emotions to someone who has the power to throw them in your face. No, you lay out clues and traps and snares…not the truth.

But isn't the truth so much simpler?

"God, Celia, I…I just didn't have it in me, I guess," I exclaim, shaking my head. "You scared me to death. If I told you, then…then things might not have worked out."

"But things didn't work out anyway," Celia insists. "And Marlin, do you know what I wanted all that time? I just wanted someone who'd tell me that. Someone who gave me the _option_ to love them back. Like Jack did." She brings out something shiny from her pocket, and as the moonlight catches it, I hold my breath. A blue feather. _His_ blue feather. "What I loved most about Jack was his honesty, did you know that?" Celia adds, fingers running over the treasure fondly. "It's so strange, because since he left, I've become a liar of sorts. And I hate that. I want to get past that…and you know, I think I can. I think if I work at it, I can become someone Cassie can look up to. And that feels good."

She beams at me with a sincere smile. I return it somewhat, leaning back on the grass with a sigh. "It's hard to change," I agree. "But I think it's worth it, you know? I haven't been the best person on Earth, and I think you can vouch for that better than some people could, Celia. God, I _hated_ you and Jack for a while…sometimes I still do, kind of. But not as much. It's watered down, now. I'm too tired to hate over stupid grudges anymore." I roll over and stare at her once more, curious. "Celia?"

"Mhm?"

"Did you…mean that? If I'd just told you how I felt, you'd have…_we'd_ have…gone through life on a different path?"

The blush that steals across her face answers me more than any sentence could, and that's when I become incredibly bold. I come to my knees as I meet her eyes—coy and unable to answer—and I take her hands in my own, the blue feather between us. "Marlin…?" Celia whispers, and I place my lips against hers gently, curiously, nervously.

Her mouth is warm against my own. I've never felt so terrified in my life, but I've never felt so complete, either; she tastes like strawberries, like sweet spring and summer dew. I wait for her to fight me, to end this intrusion of mine, but she does not leave my arms. In fact, Celia kisses back ever so softly, as if she is testing this new sensation just as I am.

I open my eyes and pull away. "I…I'm sorry," I say immediately. "I've just…always wondered what that'd be like."

Celia nods, flustered. "Well, now we know. We…we know." Her face is about as red as my sister's hair as she turns away to the grave, unable to face me. "So, now what, then?"

"I don't know," I admit, blood rushing to my head. "It's not like we can just roll back time, is it? Undo everything?"

"No. Life doesn't work like that." Her hand alights itself on her cheek and she sighs. "You'll go home, and I'll go home, and things will be the same. I'll raise Cassie and you'll work with Vesta. We'll move on."

"Alone?" I ask.

She nods. "Alone."

_Alone_. It's such a chilling word, isn't it? So desolate, so cold. I glance towards Jack's farm and see the lazy cows and chickens sleeping in the field. I see all the work to be done—work a sick man could barely handle. A man with a broken heart couldn't restore anything, much less himself.

But me, I'm not so broken anymore.

"I'll come and help you," I hear myself say. "I'll help you get the farm back in shape. I'll restore the crops, feed the animals, and do the labor you and Takakura can't."

"I can't accept help from you," Celia insists. She holds the feather close to her, like a shield. "It…it wouldn't be right. Not when you're with Muffy. Not now."

"Muffy?" So this is where all this guilt is coming from: my little stunt some days back with her best friend. "Hey." I put my hand on Celia's shoulder reassuringly and say, "You idiot. Muffy and I were just to trying to get you to see how stupid you were being."

"R-really?" She gazes into my eyes imploringly. "I just thought…I mean…but that doesn't change…"

"You owe me, okay? And I owe you. This works out best for us, doesn't it?"

Celia laughs and shakes her head. "It's so funny, though, Marlin." A shudder ripples through her body as she trembles with laughter; I study her, perplexed. "It's just that all this time—getting so close to you and hurting you—this is all I ever wanted from you. And here it is, landed in my lap." She shakes her head once more, brown hair flying. "And I…I was going to try to marry you, I decided. That's what I'd wanted not so long ago. Selfishly."

"You're not the only selfish one." I wrap an arm around her and smile wryly. "I wanted that, too, once."

The two of us stare upward at the sky, watching as the moon merges with the horizon and the sun inches itself upwards. Bright colors splash against the dark dome of the sky: pinks, yellows, and oranges stretching their wings in a soothing display of light. Our hands are intertwined as the wind suddenly picks up, and together, in a strange and silent understanding, we let go of the feather between us. It spirals into the dawn, a vibrant blue, and we watch as it disappears in a place as far away as the past itself.

"Marlin?" she asks me, and I feel I can already foresee her question, one I heard once long ago spoken from those pale pink lips. "After all this…will you still be my friend?"

And this, I _know_, is what we've needed all along.

* * *

**End Note**: Stay tuned for the epilogue; it's not done yet!


	18. Chapter 18: Epilogue

**Note: **Final chapters take awhile, don't they? This one had about five possible options for me to choose from…some darker than others, and some sweeter. What I ended up with was kind of unexpected, I'll admit—the scenes attacked me out of nowhere, gave my new character some more substance. I like it, though, and I hope you do, too. Because I have no clue what you'll think of it. XD

_Epilogue:_

_Cassie_

If you want something in life—really, really want it—it's up to you to go for it. At least, that's what my mom always says whenever I start to ramble on about the future. "If you want to become an artist," she tells me, "then don't you think you ought to work at it, instead of repeatedly saying you can't make it?" My mom isn't exactly the most knowledgeable woman in the realm of job opportunities for starving artists. Still, she means well, and I suppose she's got a point. Sort of.

"Sketching again?" a voice calls, and I turn my head to see a familiar man approach, his head of gray hair the first thing to register in my mind. His startling blue eyes are what I see next, and I smile as I adjust the book in my lap.

"Just doodling some sheep," I tell him as I hold the picture high. "They're fluffy."

Marlin's mouth quirks into a smile as he shakes his head and continues to work the field. "You still haven't found a job then, I see. Your mom will love that."

"She should be used to it by now," I remark while I stand up and stretch. The wind plays lightly with my wispy brown curls, and it's days like this that I half-expect Marlin to tell me I look like my mother. Coming from him, that's probably the same thing as being called "beautiful." The way he looks at my mom, you'd think she was God's gift to earth.

See, that's the thing about Marlin: he's not my dad. Not even my step-dad. But he might as well be, the way things stand. The first time I called him "dada" at a year-and-a-half years old, my mom had the good grace to just smile and bear it. Soon enough, though, I got scolded by the people around me with gentle laughter. "_No, baby, that's not your dada. He's your Uncle Marlin. Can you say Uncle?_"

Even then, I didn't like the sound of the word. And to my satisfaction, neither did Marlin.

"I remember when you used to draw on walls," Marlin continues with a laugh. "Finger-paint was probably the worst birthday present Vesta ever gave you."

I stuck my tongue out at him in answer. "Speak for yourself. I happen to appreciate a good round of wall-ruining."

"What's this about wall-ruining?"

If I were to describe my mother, physically, I'd probably call her delicate. Not delicate as in sickly, but as in fragile: she's tiny boned, and her hair—which used to be the warm shade of russet that I possess—is now dusted with silver flecks that catch the sunlight. She hikes up her apron as she comes towards us, her eyes soft and kind as they eye the two people she loves most in the world.

"Your daughter is planning to open up finger-paint and explore the canvas of the wall again," Marlin quips, and I stick my tongue at him again. "But the bigger problem here is that we're out of strawberry seeds."

"Eh? Well, I'm sure we could buy a few from Vesta—she's coming here later for dinner anyway, isn't she?"

"As always."

I look at my sketch book once again and slink off to the side as the two of them talk, seating myself on the fence. Skipping the chubby sheep doodle I've drawn, I come to a new sheet of paper and begin to quickly outline the scene before me: the angular shape of Marlin's jaw, my mother's curve of a cheek, the glow in their eyes as they exchange words. It's rough at best, but I'll do all the refining later—which is the tough part, I assure you.

I think I have one of the weirdest families in the world. It's weird because of a lot of reasons: my mom, Marlin, Vesta, and Takakura make up what I consider to be a close-knit family, as families go, but I'm only related to _one_ of them. And while I could label Vesta and Takakura helpers and friends, I have trouble doing that with Marlin.

From drawing, I've observed a lot. My favorite subjects tend to be unaware of my presence, and since I see Marlin with my mom so often, it's only natural I sneak up on them and draw what I see. Half of my book is full of pictures of them. And if you look, it's not a friendly interaction that they share—it's something closer, something rare even between married men and women.

Takakura tells me my mom looked at my father like that once. I wish she'd kept a picture of him, but she insists I look just like him anyway. Which is confusing, since Marlin says I look like my mom. I guess they must have been pretty alike, then. All I've seen is his grave, and I drew it once for the anniversary of his death: a stone tablet with a lily gracing its presence. The picture's buried in the topsoil there, in an envelope, right in front of the grave. Maybe he can see it wherever he is. Maybe he wishes I'd get a paying job, too, like my mom does. Maybe he sees how my mom looks at Marlin, as well.

Because I can't be the only one, honestly.

* * *

"Marriage is the surest way to become unhappy that there is," Kate announces, and Hugh rolls his eyes at her as I laugh. "I'm serious, guys! Name a single happy couple you know."

The three of us are seated at the Inn, three jugs of milk spread on a table between us as we talk, as usual, about anything and everything. "C'mon, Kate. Hugh's parents seem legitimately happy, don't they?" I insist.

"Well, by the time they both come from work, they're too tired to argue about anything," Hugh admits with a guffaw. "So yeah, I guess they're happy, sort of."

"But not _happy_ happy," Kate points out, an I-told-you-so smile tugging at her lips. "Look at my parents, seriously. Dad can't handle reality, and my mom can't handle anything that's out of whack with what she wants. And she wants Dad to be something he's not. But all the single people here—they are pretty happy, aren't they?"

"Hm…maybe," I say idly. I catch Hugh's eye and we silently exchange our discomfort at being caught in the crossfire of another of Kate's little tirades. If Kate didn't have her writing, I don't think we'd ever escape from her little thoughts on life; we've had enough serious discussions to bog us down for a good hundred seasons. Whenever they start, Hugh and I figure we should just nod them out and wait for the eventual milk-drinking-contest that'll ensue. Hugh usually wins, but he's let me catch up to him before. Sometimes.

"Just look at your mom, Cassie; she's one of the most cheerful and bubbly people in this whole town," Kate continues. "And she's single! Coincidence? I think not."

"Oh, that's a load of crap." Hugh grins. "She's got a boyfriend; you can't count that as single."

"Guys! Stop gossiping about my mom! I'm kind of getting weirded out here," I groan. I take a tentative sip of milk before speaking again, the two grinning impishly at my outburst. "But yeah, they're not even dating. Marlin and my mom. They're just…close."

Hugh raises an eyebrow. "_Close_?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Hugh."

Close, to me, means coming to someone's house and staying by their side as they lay sick in bed—even when they don't need you to. Close means cooking meals side-by-side, swapping stories, and walking together late at night to see the stars and talk. Close means smiling for no reason at all, even after years and years of seeing that same face and knowing it in perfect memory.

"…It is true, though," Kate sighs. "She looks at him all different, so maybe I shouldn't have used her as an example. But then again, it's easier to stay in love if you're not committed. Marriage messes with that."

"I dunno," I reply. "I mean, my mom apparently loved my dad a lot. So I'm not sure if I agree with that. Besides, being that happy with someone just sort of screams, 'Get Married!' Why dance around it, if you love someone?"

"Lots of reasons," Hugh counters. "Jobs can get in the way. I mean, I know whoever I marry is going to have to deal with me training every morning, noon, and night. And some people travel, so they'd have to take that into account. Then _some_ of us," he adds with a laugh, "don't have jobs to live off of."

I kick him for that, and Kate giggles. "You deserved it, Cassie. I mean, how long does it take to get some kind of pay?"

"We can't all write children's books and memoirs in our spare time, okay? And we're not all buff athletes, either," I retort. "Some of us are going to sit in our parents' house, helping shovel horse poo, until someone notices our art millions of years after we're dead."

"Glad I'm the buff athlete, then," Hugh laughs.

"And hey, you're not _completely_ right," Kate corrects me as she clucks her tongue. "I don't do kids' stuff anymore. Not since I lost my illustrator; with the crappy one I've got as a replacement, I think all my creative juices have just died. I can't write a cute kids' series with ugly abstract…stuff. It works for Cody, but not me."

Immediately I jump on her words, and Kate pales. "Illustrator?"

"Oh, no, Cassie—no, I see what you're thinking. No."

"C'mon. I need a job!"

"No."

"You need an illustrator."

"No."

"And you still owe me money from that book tour of yours."

Well, it's _true_, and she sighs deeply and rubs her temples in thought. "Fine, fine. But I'm going to need to see your work, to get an idea of what I'm working with. You got it handy?" I hand her the wine-red notebook, and Kate furrows her brow, flipping through. "Dang, you draw your mom a lot."

"She's usually nearby." I shrug. To my annoyance, Hugh is now craning his head to see my work as well, and it feels strangely intrusive. It's bad enough that half of these pictures are unfinished; worse, most of them are of my mom talking with what my friends have just deemed her unofficial boyfriend, and…well, it's odd.

"Is she always like this with Marlin, then?" Hugh asks aloud, and I glower at him.

"Like I said. They're close."

"Makes me wonder why they didn't get married, then," Hugh remarks. "I mean, they're obviously at that point, aren't they? Where they 'dance around' the idea or whatever."

"They're not getting married," I answer him, and I turn to Kate instead. "So do I pass the test?"

"Why not get married?" Kate answers instead. "Why haven't they? Really, I'm curious."

Two other kids in this entire village, and they _have_ to be nosy little gossipers. "How should I know?" I exasperate. "I mean, they're happy, but—"

"But what?" Hugh interrupts. "Didn't you say that yourself? They just scream 'Get Married!' So, basically, why is Kate suddenly right, and why are you wrong?"

My mouth is dry; my brain is drawing a blank. "I don't need to answer this." So I snatch back my book and stalk off, pretending that I'm not as clueless about my mom and Marlin as I really, truly, am.

* * *

"Mom…do you love Marlin?"

The plate slips from her hands into the sink, where it hits the water with a surprised little _plip plop_ of sound. "Marlin?" she repeats, and I shrug, leaning against the kitchen counter. "You want to know if I love him?"

"Well, _do_ you?" I insist. "Because some days, I don't know, it seems like…like you should be married or something. I mean, you're almost forty. Most people your age are, well, married." Excluding Muffy, Nami, and Flora. Not that I'm about to give my mom ammo here.

"Hm, well, marriage doesn't necessarily make you _happy_," my mother disagrees, concentrating on the grime of the lunch plates. "I'm perfectly content as things stand, Cassandra. I could go through life never marrying again, and I think I'd be just fine."

"But you were happy when you married Dad, then?" I press.

She pauses, and I wait as my mom purses her lips and nods. "Well, of course I was. Why else would I have married him? I loved Jack _very_ much, and he was a perfect husband to me. Marlin…Marlin is a lovely man, but he's a friend, that's all."

"You make goo-goo eyes at him, Mom."

"And before I forget, Cassie, how is that job hunt of yours going?" my mother hedges easily. "If you want to become a farmer, that's fine, but I feel strange about you giving up on something so important to you as art—"

"First of all, I'm not giving up on anything. Second of all, do you or do you not make goo-goo eyes at Marlin? Don't deny it. You do."

"Women my age don't make goo-goo eyes," my mother laughs. "And…well…I like being with Marlin. I do. There, are you satisfied now? I enjoy his company very much. But as for loving him…" She closes her eyes and smiles. "Well. I don't have a right to love someone who doesn't love me back, now do I?"

And simple as that, she changes the subject back to my lack-of-a-job, as I sit and wonder how the heck she could go through life without seeing how Marlin gazes at her each and every day.

* * *

"Honey, I'm going to have to tell you something you don't want to hear." Muffy blows a strand of her recently-dyed hair back and sighs. "Your mom and Marlin are two very stubborn idiots. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you'll see why they're still not married after all this time."

I like Muffy. I do. When I was a kid, she'd sneak me into the bar before opening because I'd always whine about not knowing what I was missing out on. _"Smell this," _Muffy instructed me, and I took a whiff of strong alcohol and wrinkled my nose in disgust. _"See? Baby, you aren't missing a thing."_

So coming to her about my mom is probably the most natural thing in the world. Heck, I could come to her and tell her I was pregnant, or that I was doing drugs, and I know she'd do whatever it took to help me get through it. Asking her about my mom is a cakewalk.

"Mom is stubborn, but not totally and _completely_ stubborn," I argue. "And Marlin is kinda blunt about these sorts of things, so why he hasn't made the first move is beyond me."

"Ah, but that's because you weren't here to _see_ the first move," Muffy tells me. "If you were there for their first year together, girl, you'd see a lot that you can't quite glean now. Maybe not so much from your mom, but from Marlin—ah, Marlin. He was about as subtle as a brick." We pause in our walk to see Hugh racing his dad up and down the hill, and my friend waves at me emphatically. I giggle and wave back. "Sort of like Hugh," Muffy tacks on with a grin.

"What?"

"You and Hugh."

"…Me and Hugh?"

"Cassie, baby, I know what I said."

I blush—Muffy's always trying to pair up anyone and everyone, I _swear_—and reply, "You're not finished with your explanation."

"Fine. But I expect one from _you_ once I'm done." The beach comes into view and we watch as the sunshine shimmers on the water's surface: a dome of blue glass. "So, Marlin pursued your mom for a few years, but being her sweet oblivious self, she never caught on. So when Jack swept her off her feet like some fairy tale prince, she had no reason to stay around for Marlin, not really. It wasn't until your daddy died that I think Celia realized exactly what went on those few years prior."

Somehow, I can believe that; Mom can be dense sometimes. If Marlin didn't check behind her work, I think we'd have been cheated out of a lot of money…Mom always gets the shipping rates wrong, for some reason.

"So what happened?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"Jack was gone, and she was pregnant. So your mom got scared, Cassie. And scared people do stupid things."

I listen quietly as she continues, hearing about a young girl I had never met shouldering burdens I've never had to carry. I study the patterns of seagulls as I contemplate hasty decisions, and the fear that propels them. I try to understand. That much, I think, I can do.

"And what did she do once she brought me home?" I insist. "How did you…and Marlin…start talking to her again?"

At this, Muffy shrugs. "Honey, all I know is Marlin came back agreeing to work by your mother's side, and Celia immediately apologized to me after. That's how they've been, ever since. Two peas in a pod. So whatever happened that day, I think they found some kind of understanding. And I think if either of them admitted that maybe they still saw the other in a romantic light…I guess they're afraid they'd jeopardize that balance."

"But that's stupid," I retort. "Anyone can see how they feel about each other."

"Cassie, baby, in life you sometimes see things sometimes that other people are blind to." Muffy smiles at me and gives me a reassuring hug. "Especially when it's _them_ you're looking at."

Left alone on the beach, and mercifully freed from explanations about Hugh and I (if only Kate hadn't started dating that co-worker of hers, I swear…), I sit myself down on the sand and pull off my shoes to let the surf soak my feet. Wriggling my toes, I can feel each and every grain of the rough beach against my skin, and my eyes drink in the sight of the dazzling blue sea before me. It's breathtaking, each and every time. And no matter how many times you see the ocean, it's never the same shade of blue—sometimes greener, sometimes darker. I squint and look closer, and suddenly I'm on my feet, wading into the water.

It can't be that on the waves…can it?

Knee-deep in the water, I reach out into the watery depths and enclose my fingers about a smooth, but slippery, object. "What do you know?" I chuckle to myself, and I hold the feather high, its color an unmistakable blue.

It hits me like a thunderbolt, and immediately I know what I have to do.

* * *

_Dear Mom. The way things are going, I'm not going to get a good job for awhile. So I'm taking the next best option. Hugh's a good guy, and I love being with him, so…okay, I know you think we're too young and all. But Mom, I'm an adult. A jobless adult, but an adult. And if you want to come to my marriage, it'll be at Romana's mansion, six o'clock sharp. Don't try to stop me. There's nothing you or Marlin could do to make me change my mind. Love you, Cassie._

* * *

It's not a fancy wedding, and that's fine with me. I've only had a day, and with the day I've had, I think I've done a lot. Hugh smiles at me from across the room, and I wink back, Vesta and Takakura exchanging knowing smiles. Lumina is fussing on about the flowers she's strung up while Kate is pretending to listen to her complaints and shooting me death glares when the heiress isn't looking. Romana keeps grinning at me, patting me on the head and saying, "Isn't this exciting? I always hoped this day would come. Always, always."

Muffy looks equally pleased, if not more so. But there's a fidgety edge to her content, as if she's scared of what just might come through those doors. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she whispers urgently, and I nod. Nothing could shake my decision. Nothing at all.

When they come, it's explosive, dynamic, thunderous. The doors of the mansion slam against the wall, and I can hear Marlin's snarling voice scream out, "Cassie, what the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

I smile to myself. No surprises there.

Behind him comes a shorter figure, hands clutching her abdomen as she gasps for air, exhausted from what looks like running. "Cassandra…" she moans, and I force myself to stare into her eyes: wide, startled, and afraid. "Cassandra, _please_, stop!"

"Stop what?" I ask simply, and immediately I know I've answered incorrectly.

"You know damn well what!" Marlin snaps as he approaches me. "How can you run off here to get married and leave your mother nothing but a frickin' note? Did you give this any thought at _all_? When did you _plan_ this wedding?"

"Yesterday," I admit. I can hear my mother whimper in the background.

Anger contorts Marlin's features, but it's his eyes I'm centering in on. They reflect an emotion similar to that in my mother's own two orbs…something resembling concern mixed with fear. Whirling about, he faces Hugh instead of me, and Marlin accuses, "And you. _You_. I don't even know what to say to you, you know that? I don't get how anyone could force someone they love to go behind their family's back like this. You're both stupid—damn, damn stupid, and I hope you know it!"

"What Marlin's trying to say here," my mother interrupts in her soft voice, "is that this…this is unexpected. Everyone here, I think they didn't expect to see you two married so soon." She looks about imploringly. "…Am I right?"

Hugh looks at Lumina, who looks at Kate, who looks at Vesta, who looks at Takakura, who looks at Muffy, and in turn looks to Romana to reply. "Oh, Celia," the old woman says in surprise, "I thought this was to be _your_ wedding, was it not?"

From white, to pink, to scarlet, my mother's cheeks blossom into a deep rose red, and her body remains frozen to the ground, eyes glued upon Romana in shock. "I…no, I…Cassie…?"

Marlin wraps his arm around her and stares at the sea of faces around him, scowling. "We have a note. Okay? A note that says Hugh and Cassie were going to elope here tonight. Celia isn't…she's not…"

Silence sets in, and I take the necessary steps forward towards these two. From this angle, they look like one silhouette against the candlelight, and when I approach them I can see how all three of us merge into one complete shadow. I wonder if it's all three of our hearts beating like drums, as well, or if I'm just not as certain about this as I had been mere moments before.

"Mommy," I start, a name that I hadn't used in ages leaving my lips, "you're always telling me if I want something in life…I need to go for it, right?" I swallow a lump in my throat and meet her stare straight-on. "Well, that's what I want to tell you now—you _and_ Marlin. Because it's been so many years, hasn't it? Great years. Good years. And even if you're happy now…why not take that just a step further?"

The feather in my hands is beaten, wrecked by nature and the elements. But as I hand it to the two of them, I could swear it was the single most beautiful thing in the world, locking them together as nothing else could. Marlin opens his mouth to speak, but closes it tight, glancing at my mother instead. Neither have any more words to speak.

"I—I'm sorry I tricked you," I continue, unable to interpret their silence. "I'm sorry I lied, really. But what's between you two—_that's_ not a lie, is it?" My thoughts dart back and forth from pictures I've drawn and memories I've recalled: my mother blushing, Marlin grinning, the beautiful duet of their laughter. "No, I've known you both too long to be blind to this. I…I mean, you don't have to accept this. You don't have to get married. But you two love each other, don't you? If you don't, just say so. Now."

No one dares to speak, to _breathe_, as Marlin and my mother meet each other's gaze. There's almost a kind of friction between them—but no, anger does not flare up in their eyes, nor contempt, nor pity. On the outside, they are adults, but inside I feel as if I can see two frightened schoolchildren, unable to confess to that which they hide inside. It's only a matter of time before their emotions rise to the surface, and I wait, a strange sort of anxiety chaining me down as I study their faces in wonder.

"I've…I've never changed my answer to that question," Marlin answers first, averting my mother's gaze as he sighs in defeat. "Let Celia speak. Please."

"Me? Oh, Marlin, must I?" she laughs hollowly. I know this laugh. My mother doesn't shout when she wants to be left alone—she puts on this fakey kind of optimism, and somehow I've always preferred Marlin's tumultuous rages to her empty smiles. She twists her hands in her lap, and something wrestles within her, pulling her deep within herself to find the words to say. "I…I've been married before, long ago. But I'm happy now. These years with you, Cassie, and you too, Marlin, have easily been the best of my life. Who am I, to ask for anything more?"

And oh my Goddess, my mother is _crying_. She wipes large, wet tears from her eyes and tries valiantly to laugh instead of choking on her emotion. Everyone is staring, and I briefly decide I must be the stupidest girl in the world, to embarrass my poor mother like this. This isn't what I intended. Nowhere near.

"Celia…" Her name is whispered softly, reverently, almost like a lullaby. Marlin cups her chin in his hand and holds her gaze, wiping a tear from her cheek with a gentleness I have never seen him possess. "Please, don't cry. Please."

In a single fluid motion, his hand falls from her cheek, and Marlin takes the feather into his hands, eyeing it for a moment before bending one knee. Mom's face is puffy and red, but Marlin's expression is so much brighter, so much bolder than before. "Oh, Marlin, what are you doing?" my mother laughs, wiping her eyes.

"What I should have done long ago. Somewhere more private than here, but here will have to do." His hand extends the feather forward, while the other squeezes her wrist almost forgivingly. "Celia, if I'd told you I loved you the day we met, I'd hope to God that you would have turned me down immediately. I can't imagine…can't _dream_…of seeing you married to the man that I once was." He stops for a single, pregnant pause, soaking in the moment to choose his words carefully. Marlin glances my way and catches my eyes long enough to give me a fleeting smile. "And now, after all these years, maybe your daughter has seen something we've both been too afraid to admit. Maybe now…I can ask you this question, and truly accept your answer, whichever reply it may be. But I love you, Celia. And I guess I always will. So, I'll ask you now: will you marry me?"

Was there any doubt, I think to myself as she flings himself into his arms, that she wouldn't say yes?

* * *

Muffy always claims that this whole wedding thing was her idea, or at least she brought it about somehow. "_I always knew you would be a Cassandra_," she'd nodded. "_I knew it from the moment I saw you._"

It'd always been a joke, that my mom was _The Blind One_, and I was supposed to be the one who saw what others couldn't. But as much as I'd love to attribute setting up their marriage to some prophetic sight I possess, that'd be a lie. The thing is, we never know what's ahead of us; we're having enough trouble trying to see what's right in front of our faces as is. So maybe the future isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe it's just today that matters, and the past is just a library we can glance at from time to time.

I guess today's the day I close my final page.

"So you're rooming with Kate in the city?"

"Mhm. Splitting the rent," I reply, shouldering my bag of belongings. Hugh raises an eyebrow and makes a motion to help me, but I shoot him a glare and he backs off. "It's about time I left, you know? And what with their honeymoon going on, now's the perfect time."

Hugh nods at that. "Yeah, I wouldn't want to hang around that, either. So I guess you'll be drawing for that publisher, right?"

"Fluffy sheep and chubby cows," I announce with a grin. "Kate's got a farming bug in her writing system, and together we'll make the cutest children's concoction ever."

"And maybe make some money, if you're lucky."

"Which is where the term part-time-job comes in handy."

Hugh can't help but laugh at that, and I giggle as well. "Just not fast food restaurants, okay? I couldn't visit you in a place like that. It could totally screw up my season's training."

"Ah, but if you win at the Olympics, you could endorse our products!" I suggest.

"Sure, I bet the sporting world would just _love_ that," he chuckles. "Ah, it's going to be weird with you gone, you know?"

And I do know. For some reason, as I view Hugh's beaming face and the ginger locks of his hair, I can't help but feel the need to photograph him, to sketch his expression down and remember it always. But I couldn't bring out my sketchbook, not now. It's way down at the bottom of my bag, and you couldn't pay me to go through that anytime soon.

"Cassie, get your butt in gear and let's go!" my future roommate shouts as she runs over, her suitcase already packed on the ferry. I roll my eyes and give Hugh an apologetic glance.

"I, uh, have to go."

"No kidding," he grins, and before I know it, I'm being crushed in a near-fatal bear hug. His body is warm against my own: strong, reassuring. "Write to me, alright?"

"C'mon, Cassie, we've got to leave," Kate insists, but I could swear her tone has calmed somewhat and that she sounds almost…pleased. "You ready now?"

We pull ourselves away ever so slowly, and I bite my lip, not daring to find out if my cheeks are as hot as I think they are. "Yeah. Let's go."

You know, I have no idea what the heck I'm going to do once I leave this place. I've lived here for Goddess knows how long, and the very word "city" is practically the same thing as "UFO" or "alien" to me. Still, a shudder of thrill shoots through me, and I think my heartbeat is singing as it beats erratically in my chest.

Glancing behind me once more, I see two figures standing in a field, arms wrapped about each other so that they are not two souls, but one, sealed together by their lips. Something in my expression relaxes, and I know that I'm not leaving anyone behind, but starting something beautiful…something that maybe I, too, can find down this road.

"Cassie! Come on!"

I close my eyes, and I turn away, knowing already that this perfect sketch will be forever fresh in my mind: two lovers embraced, with nothing but the newly budding flowers of Spring the background to their own simple and long-awaited reward.

The End

* * *

**End Note:** Um, wow. It's over. This ended much sooner than I expected; I really believed this story would break twenty chapters. Still, I'm happy with how it ended up. I knew I wanted Cassie to narrate this passage, but I wasn't sure if I wanted her to be a child or adult, and whether or not I actually wanted Marlin and Celia to get married. That, in particular, was a hard choice for me to make. But I think this completed the theme well--that just because things don't work out a first time, doesn't mean they can't a second. And I'm sorry if the ending was too Cassie-centric...I got into her voice, and she had a mind of her own, that girl...(shakes head) Well, at least I can finalize the "No sequel!" comment this way.

Thank you to _all_ my readers, whether you reviewed or remained silent: I owe you so much for sticking with this story, and encouraging me to write better each and every chapter. (I'll have you know, I actually replied to every review last chapter--something I've been unable to do for a while, and hope to do more often.) I hope the ending was to your liking, and that you don't feel cheated by the conclusion I've chosen...I thought long and hard about it, though, and jumped through ideas as opposite as marriages, funerals, and moving out on one's own. Two out of three isn't bad, eh? ;)

Thanks, once again. I mean it. Thank you all so much.

--Scarlet


End file.
